"My head aches so confoundedly that I feel quite an idiot, and can't think of anything. But I can see one thing—someone is being very kind to me. I think if my wife were to come she would be able to thank you for me. Is she not here? Can she not be got? My wife Polly Anne?"
Yes—the barrier of his utter lack of recognition could not be surmounted yet, if ever. She must accept the rôle of a stranger; for now, certainly—perhaps for good. Luckily, he had closed his eyes as his voice grew fainter with his effort, and died out on his last word. She fought bravely against the tremulousness of her own to say: "We do not know where to send to her. Can you tell us?"
"Yes—but don't frighten her. Send it as from me. Say I have had a slight accident—that is it, I suppose?..."
"Yes, you have had an accident—a fall."
"... And am doing perfectly well. Mind you say that!"
"Oh yes—that shall be worded all right. But where are we to send?"
"Number eighty-three—I think it's number eighty-three—Great Coram Street." Again his great effort to speak overcame him; and, though he got through the last words plainly, they ended in a groan. Then Judith heard her father coming, and the nurse, and left the room to meet him. The nurse passed on into the room, but Sir Murgatroyd stopped to speak with his daughter. He looked ill and harassed, and his age was visible on him. The last two days had tried him, no doubt!
"They say Sir Alfred has spoken. Is that so?"
"Yes—he has been speaking to me. But, oh—papa—papa!..." It stopped him dead to hear the distress in her voice.
"Yes, dear child, what? Tell me—tell me all!..." It took her a moment to choke down a sob, and then it came.