Mr. Wyatt acknowledged the courteous utterance with a deprecating gesture
as they shook hands and followed quickly after the doctor, who was
proceeding slowly up the steep staircase.

* * * * *

Sir Herbert Saunderson buried himself in _The Times_, always placed
in his car. Suddenly he was disturbed. Mr. Wyatt, pale and hatless, stood
on the pavement.

"We were too late!" He uttered the words in a whisper, which ended in a
gulp.

The awed face told its own tale. Sir Herbert got out of his car and
followed him without a word.

At the bedside the three men stood silently, reverently looking down on
David Saunderson.

On his face that happy, superior smile seemed to say to them: "What a
lucky fellow I am to have the best of it like this--and Wyatt provided
for, too!"