Ogilvie went straight to town. When he arrived at Victoria he took a hansom and drove to the house of the great doctor who had last seen Sibyl. Sir Henry Powell was at home. Ogilvie sent in his card and was admitted almost immediately into his presence. He asked a few questions, they were straight and to the point, and to the point did the specialist reply. His last words were:
“It is a question of time; but the end may come at any moment. There never was any hope from the beginning. From the first it was a matter of days and weeks, I did not know when I first saw your little daughter that she could live even as long as she has done, but the injury to the spine was low down, which doubtless accounts for this fact.”
Ogilvie bowed, offered a fee, which Sir Henry refused, and left the house. Although he had just received the blow which he expected to receive, he felt strangely quiet, his troublesome heart was not troublesome any longer. There was no excitement whatever about him; he had never felt so calm in all his life before. He knew well that, as far as earthly success and earthly hope and earthly joy went, he was coming to the end of the ways. He knew that he had strength for the task which lay before him.
He went to the nearest telegraph office and sent three telegrams to Lord Grayleigh. He pre-paid the answers of each, sending one to Grayleigh’s club, another to his house in town, and another to Grayleigh Manor. The contents of each were identical.
“Wire immediately the next meeting of the directors of the Lombard Deeps.”
He gave as the address to which the reply was to be sent his own house in Belgrave Square.
Having done this he paid a visit to his solicitor, Mr. Acland. Acland did not know that he had come back, and was unfeignedly glad to see him, but when he observed the expression on his friend’s face, he started and said:
“My dear fellow, you don’t look the better for your trip; I am sorry to see you so broken down.”
“I have a good deal to try me,” said Ogilvie; “please do not discuss my looks. It does not matter whether I am ill or well. I have much to do and must do my work quickly. You have heard, of course, about the child?”
“Of her accident?” exclaimed Acland; “yes, her mother wrote to me some time ago—she had a fall from her pony?”