Sir Herbert Saunderson buried himself in The Times, always placed in his car. Suddenly he was disturbed. Mr. Wyatt, pale and hatless, stood on the pavement.
“We were too late!” He uttered the words in a whisper, which ended in a gulp.
The awed face told its own tale. Sir Herbert got out of his car and followed him without a word.
At the bedside the three men stood silently, reverently looking down on David Saunderson.
On his face that happy, superior smile seemed to say to them: “What a lucky fellow I am to have the best of it like this—and Wyatt provided for, too!”