Random Harvest by James Hilton Page B

since your time, sir.  The Evening Record.”
    “Well, if you think it’ll do any good, let’s try.  Who do you think should do the talking—George or Chet?  Better Chet, I’d say.”
    “Well, yes, Mr. Chetwynd would perhaps explain it more convincingly
    than Mr. George.  But what I really had in mind—“
    “Yes?”
    “Lord Borrell has stayed here several times, sir—bringing his
    valet, a very intelligent man named Jackson.  So I thought perhaps
    if I were to telephone Jackson—“
    An hour later Chet came up to Charles with a beaming smile.
    “Everything fixed, old boy.  Sheldon wangled it through Borrell of the International Press—there won’t be a word anywhere.  Censorship at source.  Borrell was puzzled at first, but eventually he said he’d pass the word round.  All of which saves me a job, God bless.”
    So the story, which became one for curious gossip throughout the local countryside as well as in many a London club, was never hinted at by Fleet Street.  The only real difficulty was with the editor of the Stourton and District Advertiser, a man of independent mind who did not see why he should not offer as news an item of local interest that was undoubtedly true and did not libel anybody.  A personal visit by Chetwynd to the landlord of the premises in which the Advertiser housed its printing plant was necessary before the whole matter could be satisfactorily cleared up.
    Charles spent the morning in a wearying and, he knew, rather foolish attempt to play down the congratulations.  Every servant who had known him from earlier days sought him out to say a few halting, but demonstrably sincere words.  It rather surprised as well as pleased him to realize that he had been remembered so well; but the continual smiling and handshaking became a bore.  There were new faces too, recent additions to the Stourton staff, whom he caught staring at him round corners and from doorways.  They all knew his story by now and wished to see the hero of it; the whole thing was doubtless more exciting than a novel because more personal in their lives, something to save up for relatives when they wrote the weekly letter or took their next day off.
    Once, on his way through the house, he passed the room on the first floor where his father lay ill.  It was closed, of course, but the door of an adjoining room was open, and through it he could see two young nurses chatting volubly over cups of tea.  They stared as he went by, and from that he knew that they too had heard and were excited over the news.
    When he appeared at lunch, he found Sanderstead and Truslove in the midst of what was evidently a sharp argument.  Truslove was the family solicitor, a sallow sharp-faced man in his late fifties.  During the little hiatus of deferential how-d’ye-dos and handshaking, the doctor and the lawyer continued to glare at each other as if eager to make an end of the truce.  It came as soon as Charles said:  “Don’t let me interrupt your talk.”
    “What I was saying, Mr. Charles,” resumed Truslove, eager for an ally, “is that the problem has a legal as well as a medical side.  Naturally one would prefer to spare your father any kind of shock, but can we be certain that he himself would wish to be spared—when the alternatives are what they are?”
    “All I can say,” Sanderstead growled, “is that in his present state a shock might kill him.”
    “But we have Mr. Charles to think about,” urged Truslove; which made Charles interject:  “Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t bother about ME.”
    “Very natural of you to say that, Mr. Charles, but as a lawyer I’m bound to take a somewhat stricter viewpoint.  There’s the question of the WILL.”  He spoke the word reverentially, allowing it to sink in before continuing:  “None of us should forget that we’re dealing with an estate of very considerable value.  We should bear in mind what would be your father’s wishes if he were to know that