There he was undressed and washed, and put to bed in a clean shirt.
The morphia began to take firm hold of him; the pain was eased, and he became at rest. A nurse came with a notebook.
“Name?” she asked.
“Henry Warren.”
“Married?”
“Yes. I don’t know. She left me—went off with another chap. A black man.”
“Do ye know her address?”
Warren shook his head. “I don’t think she’s in England. She wouldn’t care, anyway.”
“Next of kin? Have ye got a father, or a mither, any brothers or sisters?”
Warren smiled. “There’s nobody like that. If I peg out, let Mr. Morgan know. Hundred and forty-three, Lisle Court, London, E.C.3.”
“Is he a relation?”
“No. Chap I know in an office.”
“Nobody else?”
“No,” said Warren wearily.
The nurse went away, and he lay quietly for someminutes, in a doze. At the foot of the bed the sister and a maid were sorting out his discarded clothes, and turning out his pockets. He listened quietly to their low commentary.
“That’s funny—where’s his cards? There ought to be some cards. Funny. What’s in the coat pockets? Oh, that’s bread—throw it away. He won’t want that. Here’s his money in the trousers. Eleven and fourpence—no more, is there? All right, write it down, and I’ll sign for it. There’s his cigarettes and his matches—he’ll want those presently. But I can’t make out about his cards.”
“Shall I ask him?”
“No, let him be now.”
“What is he, do you think? A clerk?”
The sister turned over the clothes. “Aye, that’ll be it. A clerk, walking down south. They say there’s work in the south, but I don’t know, I’m sure. Many that’s on the road will be glad to be home again, if you ask me.” She was examining the coat. “They’ve been good clothes—he’s come down from a good position in his time.” She examined the tailor’s tab. “New York! He didn’t speak like he was American. I know what he is. He’ll have been over in America and been shipped over here when he fell out of work. To Glasgow, like as not, and then be walking south. They do that, I was reading.”
“That’s why there wouldn’t be any cards,” said the maid.
“Aye, that’s it.”
They folded the clothes together and put them in a locker by his bed. Warren lay listening to them indrugged indifference. Their ready acceptance of him as an out-of-work clerk amused him faintly, but he had no intention of refuting their idea at the moment. That would need too much energy; for the next few days his best course was to take the line of least resistance. He did not wonder at the mistake. With three days of stubble on his chin, his soiled and dirty clothes, pockets full of bread, and no wallet he was a very different man from the Henry Warren of Lisle Court off Cornhill. It did not matter. In a few hours he might be dead, for all he knew.
The doctor came back with the sister, bringing with him an older man, grey-haired and thin, and competent. Warren gathered that this was Dr. Miller, the surgeon. He made a careful examination, asked a few questions, prodded the rigid abdomen with searching fingers.
“Acute obstruction,” he said to the younger man. “Look at it for yourself. I don’t think there’s any doubt about it.”
“What’s that?” asked Warren, interested. They disregarded his question altogether, and he subsided again into his rôle of patient.
The older man got up. “I’ll do it right away,” he said to the sister. “You can get him in there soon as you like.” He turned to Warren. “Soon have you right,” he said confidently. “I don’t suppose you’ll be sorry to get rid of the pain, either.”
“I could do without it,” said Warren.
The surgeon and the doctor went away, and shortly after that two porters came with a stretcher, and took Warren to the theatre.
· · ·
In Godalming, at the same time, Morgan, the confidential secretary, was sitting with old
The morphia began to take firm hold of him; the pain was eased, and he became at rest. A nurse came with a notebook.
“Name?” she asked.
“Henry Warren.”
“Married?”
“Yes. I don’t know. She left me—went off with another chap. A black man.”
“Do ye know her address?”
Warren shook his head. “I don’t think she’s in England. She wouldn’t care, anyway.”
“Next of kin? Have ye got a father, or a mither, any brothers or sisters?”
Warren smiled. “There’s nobody like that. If I peg out, let Mr. Morgan know. Hundred and forty-three, Lisle Court, London, E.C.3.”
“Is he a relation?”
“No. Chap I know in an office.”
“Nobody else?”
“No,” said Warren wearily.
The nurse went away, and he lay quietly for someminutes, in a doze. At the foot of the bed the sister and a maid were sorting out his discarded clothes, and turning out his pockets. He listened quietly to their low commentary.
“That’s funny—where’s his cards? There ought to be some cards. Funny. What’s in the coat pockets? Oh, that’s bread—throw it away. He won’t want that. Here’s his money in the trousers. Eleven and fourpence—no more, is there? All right, write it down, and I’ll sign for it. There’s his cigarettes and his matches—he’ll want those presently. But I can’t make out about his cards.”
“Shall I ask him?”
“No, let him be now.”
“What is he, do you think? A clerk?”
The sister turned over the clothes. “Aye, that’ll be it. A clerk, walking down south. They say there’s work in the south, but I don’t know, I’m sure. Many that’s on the road will be glad to be home again, if you ask me.” She was examining the coat. “They’ve been good clothes—he’s come down from a good position in his time.” She examined the tailor’s tab. “New York! He didn’t speak like he was American. I know what he is. He’ll have been over in America and been shipped over here when he fell out of work. To Glasgow, like as not, and then be walking south. They do that, I was reading.”
“That’s why there wouldn’t be any cards,” said the maid.
“Aye, that’s it.”
They folded the clothes together and put them in a locker by his bed. Warren lay listening to them indrugged indifference. Their ready acceptance of him as an out-of-work clerk amused him faintly, but he had no intention of refuting their idea at the moment. That would need too much energy; for the next few days his best course was to take the line of least resistance. He did not wonder at the mistake. With three days of stubble on his chin, his soiled and dirty clothes, pockets full of bread, and no wallet he was a very different man from the Henry Warren of Lisle Court off Cornhill. It did not matter. In a few hours he might be dead, for all he knew.
The doctor came back with the sister, bringing with him an older man, grey-haired and thin, and competent. Warren gathered that this was Dr. Miller, the surgeon. He made a careful examination, asked a few questions, prodded the rigid abdomen with searching fingers.
“Acute obstruction,” he said to the younger man. “Look at it for yourself. I don’t think there’s any doubt about it.”
“What’s that?” asked Warren, interested. They disregarded his question altogether, and he subsided again into his rôle of patient.
The older man got up. “I’ll do it right away,” he said to the sister. “You can get him in there soon as you like.” He turned to Warren. “Soon have you right,” he said confidently. “I don’t suppose you’ll be sorry to get rid of the pain, either.”
“I could do without it,” said Warren.
The surgeon and the doctor went away, and shortly after that two porters came with a stretcher, and took Warren to the theatre.
· · ·
In Godalming, at the same time, Morgan, the confidential secretary, was sitting with old
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