of the streets in his own district. One evening, about a month ago, he
was returning from duty, when he slipped on a curbstone owing to the
darkness. Fortunately it was close to his own place, and he was able,
though with difficulty, to make his way slowly up to his flat. When I got
there in the morning, at our usual hour for work, he was in great pain.
He had injured his arm and right hand--twisted it in some way so that it
was quite useless--"

Mr. Wyatt paused.

"I hope you sent for a doctor?" There was evident apprehension in Sir
Herbert's question.

"He absolutely refused to have one. He said he was only one of the light
casualties, and that doctors must be spared in these times for important
cases. He gave me quite a lecture about it. The charwoman came in with a
laudanum dressing from the chemist, who, he said, was a friend of his,
and just as good as a doctor."

"But this is madness--simple madness!" Sir Herbert's voice was agitated.

"Oh, his hand soon got better," the little man broke in, "and the pain
gradually eased off. In a couple of days he went on working again, but of
course he couldn't write. He joked about it. He seemed to like thinking
he was in a sort of way in the firing line, as though he was slightly
wounded."

Mr. Wyatt laughed very softly.

"But I must see to this at once. Miss Milsome, kindly ring up Dr.