“Where are we going? At least you must know that.”
For answer the warder took a printed card from his pocket.
Cliff Place, Worthing
, he read. High-class Nursing and Private Sanatorium. Electrical thermal treatment under medical supervision. Augustus Fagan, M.D., Proprietor
. “Approved by the Home Secretary,” said the warder. “Nothing to complain of.”
Late in the afternoon they arrived. A car was waiting to take them to Cliff Place.
“This ends my responsibility,” said the warder. “From now on the doctor’s in charge.”
Like all Dr. Fagan’s enterprises, Cliff Place was conceived on a large scale. The house stood alone on the seashore some miles from the town, and was approached by a long drive. In detail, however, it showed some signs of neglect. The veranda was deep in driven leaves; two of the windows were broken. Paul’s escort rang the bell at the front door, and Dingy, dressed as a nurse, opened it to them.
“The servants have all gone,” she said. “I suppose this is the appendicitis case. Come in.” She showed no signs of recognizing Paul as she led him upstairs. “This is your room. The Home Office regulations insisted that it should be on an upper storey with barred windows. We have had to put the bars in specially. They will be charged for in the bill. The surgeon will be here in a few minutes.”
As she went out she locked the door. Paul sat down on the bed and waited. Below his window the sea beat on the shingle. A small steam-yacht lay at anchor some distance out to sea. The grey horizon faded indistinctly into the grey sky.
Presently steps approached, and his door opened. In came Dr. Fagan, Sir Alastair Digby-Vaine-Trumpington, and an elderly little man with a drooping red moustache, evidently much the worse for drink.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Sir Alastair, “but I’ve had an awful day with this man trying to keep him sober. He gave me the slip just as we were starting. I was afraid at first that he was too tight to be moved, but I think he can just carry on. Have you got the papers made out?”
No one paid much attention to Paul.
“Here they are,” said Dr. Fagan. “This is the statement you are to forward to the Home Secretary, and a duplicate for the Governor of the prison. Shall I read them to you?”
“ ’Sh’all right!” said the surgeon.
“They merely state that you operated on the patient for appendicitis, but that he died under the anaesthetic without regaining consciousness.”
“Poor ole chap!” said the surgeon. “Poor, poor l’il girl!” And two tears of sympathy welled up in his eyes. “I dare say the world had been very hard on her. It’s a hard world for women.”
“That’s all right,” said Sir Alastair. “Don’t worry. You did all that was humanly possible.”
“That’s the truth,” said the surgeon, “and I don’t care who knows it.”
“This is the ordinary certificate of death,” said Dr. Fagan. “Will you be so good as to sign it there?”
“Oh, death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling?” said the surgeon, and with these words and a laboured effort of the pen he terminated the legal life of Paul Pennyfeather.
“Splendid!” said Sir Alastair. “Now here’s your money. If I were you I should run off and have a drink while the pubs are still open.”
“D’you know, I think I will,” said the surgeon, and left the sanatorium.
There was a hush for nearly a minute after he had left the room. The presence of death, even in its coldest and most legal form, seemed to cause an air of solemnity. It was broken at length by the arrival of Flossie, splendidly attired in magenta and green.
“Why, here you all are!” she said with genuine delight. “And Mr. Pennyfeather too, to be sure! Quite a little party!”
She had said the right thing. The word “party” seemed to strike a responsive note in Dr. Fagan.
“Let us go down to supper,” he said. “I’m sure we all have a great deal to be thankful for.”
After supper Dr. Fagan made a little speech. “I think this an important evening for most of us,” he said, “most of all for my dear friend and sometime colleague Paul Pennyfeather, in whose death tonight we are all to some extent participants. For myself as well as for him it is the beginning of a new phase of life. Frankly, this nursing home has not been a success. A time must come to every man when he begins to doubt his vocation. You may think me almost an old man, but I do not feel too old to start lightheartedly on a new manner of life. This evening’s events have made this possible for me. I think,” he said, glancing at his daughters, “that it is time I was alone. But this is not the hour to review the plans of my future. When you get to my age, if you have been at all observant of the people you have met and the accidents which have happened to you, you cannot help being struck with an amazing cohesiveness of events. How promiscuously we who are here this evening have been thrown together! How enduring and endearing the memories that from now onwards will unite us! I think we should drink a toast—to Fortune, a much-maligned lady.”
Once before Paul had drunk the same toast. This time there was no calamity. They drank silently, and Alastair rose from the table.
“It’s time Paul and I were going,” he said.
They walked down to the beach together. A boat was waiting for them.
“That’s Margot’s yacht,” said Alastair. “It’s to take you to her house at Corfu until you’ve decided about things. Goodbye. Good luck!”
“Aren’t you coming any further?” asked Paul.
“No, I’ve got to drive back to King’s Thursday. Margot will be anxious to know how things have gone off.”
Paul got into the boat and
