“He never let on that he’d got any folks, poor fellah,” she answered with a sob. She had a kind heart if her ankles were thick. “He was never one to talk about himself, and he’s never had so much as a postcard by post since he’s been here, that I do know. His real name’s not Smith at all; all his linen—beautiful and fine his shirts are too—is all marked ‘Selsley.’”
“Have you no idea what part of the country he came from?” the General asked. “Then we could look in a directory. It would be a horrible thing if——”
“He joined us in London,” Mrs. Montmorency gasped between her sobs, while her tears made little pathways on her painted cheeks. “He hadn’t any references, but I persuaded my husband to take him. He carried his references in his face, I said, and so I’m sure we’ve found it, for a nicer, more obliging, gentlemanly——”
“Do you think, sir,” Mr. Montmorency interrupted, “that he told the little lady anything about himself when they were up on the cliff together?”
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the General in great excitement. “Of course he did; I have it. Who has got a clergy list?”
Naturally none of the Alfresco Players possessed such a work, and it was already too late to knock up the vicar of the parish. But next morning the General called on the vicar very early, and then despatched an exceedingly long telegram to the post office and several bottles of champagne to the cottage hospital, where Polly, Basil and Viola hung about the doors all the morning hoping for better news. The Alfresco Players got out a green leaflet to the effect that there would be that night a benefit performance for that talented artist, Mr. Smith, who had been suddenly stricken down by serious illness. The General seemed to send and receive a great many telegrams, and did not go fishing all that day. At sundown there was no better news at the hospital, and it seemed exceedingly probable that the jokey man would joke no more. The General met the last train, and drove away from the station accompanied by an elderly, severe-looking clergyman. They stopped at the hospital and the clergyman went in.
The jokey man was so noisy and talked so continuously that the hospital authorities had him moved from the men’s surgical ward into a little room by himself. As the matron showed the strange clergyman into this room, a nurse rose from the chair at the bedside. The jokey man’s voice was no longer loud, but he kept saying the same thing over and over again.
“All day long he keeps repeating it,” she whispered. “I’m so thankful you’ve come, for he can’t possibly last if this restlessness continues.”
“I’m sure he’ll come if you send,” the weak, irritable voice went on. “Why don’t you send? I want my father—‘father, I have sinned’—that’s it—‘father, I have sinned’—but I know he’ll come if you send. I want my father, I tell you—why won’t you send? I want my father.”