'Not at all. I have only been to my tailor's,' replied Cyril, smiling.

'I am not a swell like you, and City prices suit my pocket better than West-End ones. I was feeling rather dilapidated, so, as Unwin dismissed me early this afternoon, I thought I would attend to my outer man.'

'You would have been wiser to have run down to Teddington and had a pull up the river. You look as though you want fresh air, Blake. I don't know about your outer man, as you call it; but I must say you look uncommonly seedy.'

'Do I? Oh, I am all right,' he added hastily. 'I have not been used to spend a summer in town. How did you get on in Worth Wales, Burnett? I was never there, but I hear the scenery is beautiful.'

'So it is. You should see some of Jack Cooper's sketches; they would give an idea of the place;' and Michael launched into an enthusiastic description of a thunderstorm he had witnessed under Snowdon. 'I took Booty to pay his devoirs at the tomb of Bethgelert. On the whole, I think Booty enjoyed his trip as much as we did.'

Michael had so much to say about his trip, that they found themselves on the platform before he had half finished. It was half-past five by this time, and a good many business men were returning home. The station was somewhat crowded, but as they piloted their way through the knots of pa.s.sengers Michael still talked on. Cyril had listened at first with interest; he was becoming much attached to his new friend, and though his masculine undemonstrativeness forbade him to say much about his feelings, his grat.i.tude to Michael was deep and intense, and amid his own troubles he had an unselfish satisfaction in thinking that, whatever his own future might be, Kester's was safe. By and by his attention began to flag; he was watching an old man who stood at a little distance from them at the edge of the platform. He was a very dirty old man, and at any other time his appearance would certainly not have inspired Cyril with the wish to look at him a second time; but he was attracted by his swaying, lurching movements, which would have conveyed to any practised eye that the old reprobate was in an advanced stage of intoxication.

What if he were to lose his balance and fall over the edge of the platform? The down train was momentarily expected. Cyril could bear it no longer.

'Excuse me, Burnett,' he said hastily; 'that old fellow looks as though he might topple over any minute;' and before Michael could understand what he meant, he had dived across the platform.

The whistle of the advancing train sounded at that moment, and almost simultaneously there was a shriek of terror from some woman standing at the farther end.

'Poor wretch! he has done for himself,' Michael heard someone say. 'He went clean over.'

Michael was slightly short-sighted, and a crowd of people intercepted his view, and he could not at once make his way through them. He could not see Cyril, but the surging, excited throng all veering towards the end of the platform told him that some serious accident had occurred.

Blake must have been an eyewitness of the whole thing, he thought, as he tried to elbow his way through horrified men and hysterical women. If he could only find him! And then a very stout man in a navvy's garb blocked up his pa.s.sage.

'Is the poor old man killed?' Michael asked; but he feared what the answer would be. Was the gray-headed sinner summoned in this terrible manner to the bar of his offended Judge?

'Lord bless you, sir!' returned the man, 'he is as right as possible; the train did not touch him. It is the other poor fellow that is done for, I expect. Me and my mate have just got him out.'

A sudden horrible, almost sickening sensation of fear came to Michael.

'Oh, my G.o.d! not that, not that!' burst from his lips as he literally fought his way down the platform. 'Let me pa.s.s, sir! I believe I know him!' he cried hoa.r.s.ely, and the man in pity to his white face drew back.

There was a motionless figure lying on the bench at the other end, surrounded by porters and strangers. Michael darted towards it, but when he caught sight of the face he uttered a groan. Alas, alas! he knew it too well.

'Give me place,' he said, almost fiercely; 'that dead man is my friend.'

'He is not dead, Burnett,' observed a gentleman, who was supporting Cyril's head; 'but he is badly hurt, poor fellow! We must get him away at once.'

'Thank Heaven it is you, Abercrombie!' returned Michael excitedly; 'he is safer with you than with any man alive.'

But Dr. Abercrombie shook his head gravely.

'My carriage is outside, and is at your service,' he said; 'and for the matter of that, so am I. Let me give these men directions how to move him.'

Then Michael stood aside while the doctor issued his commands.

Cyril had not regained full consciousness, but as Dr. Abercrombie placed himself beside him and applied remedies from time to time, a low moan now and then escaped from his lips.

Michael, who had to sit with the coachman, thought that long drive would never end, and yet Dr. Abercrombie drove good horses. It seemed hours before they reached Mortimer Street, and the strain on his nerves made him look so ghastly as he went into the house to prepare Mrs. Blake, that she uttered a shriek as soon as she saw his face.

'You have come to tell me my boy is dead!' she exclaimed, catching hold of him.

'No, he is not dead; but he is badly hurt, Abercrombie says. Let me go, Mrs. Blake; they want my help to carry him in. Is there a room ready?

Mollie, look after your mother;' and Michael sped on his sad errand.

'Do not let anyone in, Burnett, while I examine him. Lock the door;' and Michael obeyed the doctor's orders, though an agonised voice outside entreated admittance.

Michael thought the doctor's examination would never end; but by and by he came up to Michael and drew him aside.

'Do you wish another opinion, Burnett?' he asked abruptly; 'but it is kinder to tell you that the thing is hopeless.'

'Good heavens, Abercrombie! Do you mean he will not live?'

'Only a few hours--he is hurt internally. They were both down on the rails, you know: I saw the whole thing; and he flung up the old man with one hand--I never saw anything so splendidly done--but the wheel of the engine caught him, and before they could stop the train the mischief was done.'

'Will he suffer? Can nothing be done for him? Abercrombie, I would give half my fortune to save the life of that man.'

'He will not suffer long,' returned Dr. Abercrombie kindly. He was a rough, hard-featured Scotchman, but no man had a better heart, as Michael knew. 'I will do all I can for him, Burnett, for his own sake as well as yours. I think he wants to speak to you, but he cannot talk much; it is agony to him.'

And Michael stepped up to the bed. In the emergency he had regained his old calmness of manner, and as Cyril's eyes were fixed on his face, he bent over him and said gently:

'Do not speak, my dear fellow; I know what you wish to say. I will telegraph for her at once.'

Cyril's damp, cold hand closed over his.

'Thanks, thanks! that is what I wanted. She would like it, and it will do no harm.'

The last few words seemed intended for a question, and Michael answered without hesitation.

'Harm! she would never forgive us if we did not send for her.'

Then a faint light came into Cyril's eyes.

'I hope for her sake I shall not suffer; but it will soon be over: I heard him say so.' He seemed to speak with difficulty. 'Don't look so sorry about it, Burnett; it is much better so, and the poor old man was saved. Oh!'

That expression of pain wrung unwillingly from his lips drew the doctor to him, and he made a sign to Michael to leave them.

An hour later Audrey received the following telegram:

'An accident. Cyril Blake badly hurt. Condition critical. Come at once. Will meet the last train at King's Cross.'

CHAPTER XLVI

'INASMUCH'

'He, being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time.'--WISDOM OF SOLOMON.