time she had played for me.  I am very fond of Chopin.  I am an uneducated fellow and the lyrical mostly appeals to me both in poetry and in music.  Besides, I have understood him better since I have been a crock.  And I loved Betty’s sympathetic interpretation.  So I sat there, listening and watching, and I knew that she was playing for the ease of both our souls.  Once more I thanked God for the great gift of Betty to my crippled life.  Peace gathered round my heart as Betty played.

The raucous buzz of the telephone in the corner of the room knocked the music to shatters.  I cried out impatiently.  It was the fault of that giant of ineptitude Marigold and his incompetent satellites, whose duty it was to keep all upstairs extensions turned off and receive calls below.  Only two months before I had been the victim of their culpable neglect, when I was forced to have an altercation with a man at Harrod’s Stores, who seemed pained because I declined to take an interest in some idiotic remark he was making about fish.

“I’ll strangle Marigold with my own hands,” I cried.

Betty, unmoved by my ferocity, laughed and rose from the piano.

“Shall I take the call?”

To Betty I was all urbanity.  “If you’ll be so kind, dear,” said I.

She crossed the room and stopped the abominable buzzing.

“Yes.  Hold on for a minute.  It’s the post-office”—­she turned to me—­“telephoning a telegram that has just come in.  Shall I take it down for you?”

More urbanity on my part.  She found pencil and paper on an escritoire near by, and went back to the instrument.  For a while she listened and wrote.  At last she said: 

“Are you sure there’s no signature?”

She got the reply, waited until the message had been read over, and hung up the receiver.  When she came round to me—­my back had been half turned to her all the time—­I was astonished to see her looking rather shaken.  She handed me the paper without a word.

The message ran: 

“Thanks yesterday’s telegram.  Just got home.  Queen Victoria Hospital, Belton Square.  Must have talk with you before I communicate with my mother.  Rely absolutely on your discretion.  Come to-morrow.  Forgive inconvenience caused, but most urgent.”

“It’s from Boyce,” I said, looking up at her.

“Naturally.”

“I suppose he omitted the signature to avoid any possible leakage through the post-office here.”

She nodded.  “What do you think is the matter?”

“God knows,” said I.  “Evidently something very serious.”

She went back to the piano seat.  “It’s odd that I should have taken down that message,” she said, after a while.

“I’ll sack Marigold for putting you in that abominable position,” I exclaimed wrathfully.

“No, you won’t, dear.  What does it signify?  I’m not a silly child.  I suppose you’re going to-morrow?”