“Oh, yes, it is. If it hadn't been for me he would not have run across the road in a fright. Oh! I can see it now—the horse plunging, his hoofs over the child—and then the collapse, and the child hidden under the horse!”
They turned down a side street and then another, sinking into the squalour that still remains in that vague river district between Pimlico Pier and Milbank.
“Poor little chap! Punishment has come at last,” said Kent. “It has a kind of way of doing so. What does Clytie think of it? Have you told her?”
“I only wrote to her yesterday. This morning I got a telegram. I think I have it with me. It is Clytie all over!”
She opened the purse she was carrying inside her muff and drew from it a crumpled telegram. It ran:
Dreadfully distressed. Get the best of everything, nurse, doctor. Find money to go on with in drawer at once. I must feel that I am doing something. Will write.
“Yes, it is like her,” said Kent, with a smile, as he handed it back to her.
“I wonder whether you would mind doing something for me, Mr. Kent?” said Winnie after a pause. “Get the money out of Clytie's drawer for me. I have been so busy all day. Reggie is in bed with a bad cold and the house is upside down—and of course I have to come here. You see, I must use the money, or else Clytie would be hurt; it seems to me to be a matter of conscience.”
“Or a matter of Clytie's telling you?” said Kent.
“Well, perhaps it's that. One always does what Clytie says. So do you, Mr. Kent. Anyhow, I should like to have the money for the sake of obeying her wishes. Could you get it for me?”