"Your being a woman may have made all the difference—for Fraithorn. I shall set Taggart of the R.A.M.C. at him to-morrow; the Major's a bit of a crack at pulmonary cases. And he shall consult with Saxham, and——"
"Saxham." Her eyebrows were knitted. "I thought I knew the names of your Medical Staff men. But I can't recall a Saxham."
"This Saxham is Civilian—and rather a big pot—M.D., F.R.C.S., and lots more. We're lucky to have got him."
She stiffened, scenting the paragraph.
"Can it be that you mean the Dr. Saxham of the Old Bailey Case?"
"The Jury acquitted, let me remind you."
"I believe so," she said; "but—he vanished afterwards. I think an innocent man would have stopped and faced the music, and not beaten a retreat with the Wedding March almost sounding in his ears. But—who knows? You have met his brother, Captain Saxham, of the —th Dragoons? It was he who stepped into the matrimonial breach, and married the young woman."
"The young woman?"
"His brother's fiancée—an heiress of the Dorsetshire Lee-Haileys, and rather a pretty-faced, silly person, with a penchant for French novels and sulphonal tabloids. I always shall believe that she liked the handsome Dragoon best, and took advantage of the Doctor's being—under the cloud of acquittal by a British Jury, to give him what the dear Irish call 'the back of her hand.'"