They galloped off in the cab together. Pollock with the bloody apalex was a young artist whose studio was in Vincent Square. Roger was fond of him. He had shared rooms with him until his marriage. Roger wondered as he drove what was going to happen to the wife if Pollock died. She was expecting a child. Pollock hadn't made much, poor fellow.
"Very beautiful paintings, Mr. Pollock does, sir," said the lady with enthusiasm. "Oh, he does them beautiful. But they're not like ordinary pictures. I mean, they're not pretty, like ordinary pictures. They're like old-fashioned pictures."
"Yes," said Roger. "Tell me. Is his big picture finished? The one with the lady under a stained-glass window."
"No, sir. It's got a lot to do yet, sir. O I 'ope nothink's going to 'appen to 'im, sir."
"Now here we are," said Roger, as the cab slackened. "Now you drive to the corner there. You'll see a brass plate with DR. COLLINSON on it at the corner house. Tell him to get into the cab with you and come round at once. Go on, now. See that he comes at once."
The door of the flat stood open. Roger entered hurriedly. Just inside he ran against Pollock, who was hastening with a jug of water from the bathroom.
"What is it, Pollock? Are you better?"
"I'm all right," said Pollock, feeling a bandaged head. "It's Kitty. Not me. Come on in, quick."
"But I thought you were having apoplexy."
"That heavy frame full of Dürers came down. The corner caught me over the eye while I was standing by the mantelpiece. It knocked me out. Come on in. I believe Kitty's in a bad way."