“What is it?”
“You’ve left your flat lights on!”
Rollison opened his mouth to storm, then caught up with himself, said with tense calmness: “Yes. Leave them, will you?” and drove off.
The Yard man stood staring at him, frowning as the car hurtled round the corner.
By night the hospital was brightly lit and quiet, with only those who must be moving about the corridors and the wards, most of the offices closed, most of the patients resting quietly, some with drugs to help them ease their pain. First, Rollison saw a night porter; then a senior porter; next a nurse; at last a Sister.
“The accident case that came in just after midnight,” she said. “Yes, sir, he’s in the operating theatre now.”
“How is he, please?”
“I’m not yet in a position to say. Who are you, sir? His son?”
“I’m his employer, but that doesn’t explain—Sister, please find out how he is, what his chances are. Ask a doctor to come and see me, someone who knows what he’s doing. If it’s a brain injury, then we’ve got to have Kempton here.”
The Sister, small, dark and elderly, said in a startled voice: “Mr.
“That’s right.”
“I’m afraid we couldn’t expect Mr. Kempton—”
Somehow Rollison controlled the tone and volume of his voice. He did not know how strange he looked, startlingly handsome, his eyes afire and his mouth set so that the words seemed to force themselves out in a kind of growl.
“I know Mr. Kempton. He is a personal friend. If my man needs him, he’ll come. Please find out.”
With great compassion and some awe, the Sister said: “I’ll see what I can discover, sir. Will you sit down and wait?”
“Thank you.” Rollison didn’t sit down, and was tempted to follow her, but he did not. He paced up and down the passage outside her office, and seemed to be walking through the emptiness of time. Two nurses passed talking, joking, glancing at him; and were sobered. A tall, dark young man who needed a shave went hurrying into a ward. The Sister came, also hurrying.
Rollison waited for her with growing, chilling fear.
“The operation is over,” she announced. “Mr. Nott-Comber did the operation himself, and you can be quite sure that no one could have performed it better. It is just a question of waiting.”
“So he’s alive,” Rollison made himself say.
“The operation was successful,” the sister said, “but he lost a great deal of blood, and his life is still in the balance.”
“When should we know?”
“If he’s still holding on in the morning—”
“May I wait here?” asked Rollison, abruptly. “There is a waiting-room with a couch,” the Sister told him. “I’ll send a nurse with you, and then send you in a cup of tea and some aspirins.”
“You’re very kind,” said Rollison, and startled her afresh with the warmth of his smile. “Thank you.”
* * *
The couch was springy and comfortable, there were two cushions for his head, and the room itself was warm. Rollison loosened his collar, shoes and belt before the nurse came in, elderly, grey, tired-looking and disinterested. Rollison did not know what the tablets were, but felt fairly sure that they were not aspirins. He took them, and sat back. All the things that had happened began to go round in his mind, and he kept seeing pictures of the people involved, especially Wallis; Ada; the girl who had come so piteously to her father, with her lovely hair shorn; and Jolly.
Stella Wallis.
Over-confident, bragging fool, why hadn’t he been satisfied with scaring her? He should never have taken her away. It had seemed a touch of genius at the time, but was it genius to have the police at his heels, and worried? Was it genius to lay Jolly open to such a risk as this?
Jolly.
* * *
He did not know what time it was when another Sister stood in front of him, next morning, a buxom woman with a high colour, bright blue eyes, and a smile which suggested that she remembered the merry days of her probationer life. She held a cup of steaming tea steady as Rollison blinked, became aware of a crick in the neck and that he was hotter than usual, and then remembered. Everything but dread vanished from his mind, and the dread showed in his expression.
“How is he?”
“He’s got through the night, and has a fair chance,” the Sister told him.
“Thank God for that! May I see him?”
“Dr. Morton is in charge now, and I expect he will allow you to, but Mr. Jolly is unconscious of course.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.” He sat up and took the tea. “You’re very good.”
“It isn’t every day we have the Toff staying here!”
