“Meet me as soon as possible at Myrtle Cottage, Camberwell Grove, and send a trained nurse, experienced in mental cases, to the same address. I want your advice upon a case in which time is of vital importance.”
He sent another telegram to another medical man, Dr. Wilmot, also an old acquaintance, and a fourth to Theodore Dalbrook, at the Priory:—
“Mrs. Porter is in London, and in my care. You need have no further apprehension.”
He was back at Myrtle Cottage within the half-hour, and was able to direct the men who had just brought a small van containing the furniture. He saw the things carried into the room that had been the dining-room, which was empty—the policeman’s family preferring to camp in the kitchen—and had them arranged there with some appearance of comfort. Then he went back to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Porter was standing at the window, staring at the weeping-ash.
“I didn’t know the tree was so big,” she muttered.
“The dining-room is in better order,” he said, gently, “will you come and sit there, while they get you some tea?”
“Yes, James,” she answered, meekly, and then she added, with almost the voice and manner of twenty years ago, “tell me about your day.”
She followed him into the other room, and seated herself opposite him, looking at him expectantly. “Tell me about your day in the law courts. Was it dull or interesting? Had you any great case on? I forget. I forget.”
She had always questioned him on his return from the law courts: she had read the reports of all his cases, and all his rivals’ cases, interesting herself in everything that concerned his career. And now there was so much of the past in her manner that his heart ached as he listened to her. He could not humour her delusion.
“I have sent for your daughter,” he said gravely, thinking that name might bring her back to a sense of the present time. “She will be here before long, I believe. I hope you will receive her kindly.”