He sat down with a long breath, evidently trying to regain his ordinary even manner. His clothes, too, were covered with dust, and his hand shook. Catherine stood before him in consternation, while a nurse came for the child.
'We had just begun our committee at four o'clock,' he said at last, 'though only about half of the men had arrived, when there was a great shouting and commotion outside, and a man rushed in calling for Elsmere. We ran out, found a great crowd, a huge brewer's dray standing in the street, and a man run over. Your husband pushed his way in. I followed, and, to my horror, I found him kneeling by—Charles Richards!'
'Charles Richards?' Catherine repeated vacantly.
Flaxman looked up at her, as though puzzled; then a flash of astonishment passed over his face.
'Elsmere has never told you of Charles Richards, the little gasfitter, who has been his right hand for the past three months?'
'No—never,' she said slowly.
Again he looked astonished; then he went on sadly: 'All this spring he has been your husband's shadow—I never saw such devotion. We found him lying in the middle of the road. He had only just left work, a man said who had been with him, and was running to the meeting. He slipped and fell, crossing the street, which was muddy from last night's rain. The dray swung round the corner—the driver was drunk or careless—and they went right over him. One foot was a sickening sight. Your husband and I luckily knew how to lift him for the best. We sent off for doctors. His home was in the next street, as it happened—nearer than any hospital; so we carried him there. The neighbours were round the door.'
Then he stopped himself.
'Shall I tell you the whole story?' he said kindly; 'it has been a tragedy! I won't give you details if you had rather not.'
'Oh no!' she said hurriedly; 'no—tell me.'