I thought that a familiar subject might help to revive his memory, so I decided to try. I pointed to the ashtray.
"Well, this is very likely Bakelite, I think. If so, it is one of the earliest of the thermosetting plastics. A man named Baekeland patented it, about 1909, I fancy. Something to go with phenol and formaldehyde."
"Thermosetting? What's that?" he enquired.
I did my best with that, and then went on to explain what little I had picked up about molecular chains and arrangements, polymerisation and so on, and some of the characteristics and uses. He did not give me any feeling of trying to teach my grandmother, on the contrary, he listened with concentrated attention, occasionally repeating a word now and then as if to fix it in his mind. This hanging upon my words was quite flattering, but I could not delude myself that they were doing anything to revive his memory.
We mustat least, I musthave talked for nearly an hour, and all the time he sat earnest and tense, with his hands clenched tightly together. Then I noticed that the effect of the brandy had worn off, and he was again looking far from well.
"I really think I had better see you home," I told him. "Can you remember where you live?"
"Fortyeight Hart Street," he said.
"No. I mean where you live now," I insisted.
But he was not really listening. His face still had the expression of great concentration.
"If only I can rememberif only I can remember when I wake up," he murmured desperately, to himself rather than to me. Then he turned to look at me again.
"What is your name?" he asked.
I told him.
"I'll remember that, too, if I can," he assured me, very seriously.
I leaned over and lifted the cover of the diary. His name was on the flyleaf, with an address in Upper Grosvenor Street. I folded the wallet and the diary together, and put them into his hand. He stowed them away in his pocket automatically, and then sat gazing with complete detachment while the porter got us a taxi.
An elderly woman, a housekeeper, I imagine, opened the door of an impressive flat. I suggested that she should ring up Sir Andrew's doctor, and stayed long enough to explain the situation to him when he arrived.
The following evening I rang up to enquire how he was. A younger woman's voice answered. She told me that he had slept well after a sedative, woken somewhat tired, but quite himself, with no sign of any lapse of memory. The doctor saw no cause for alarm. She thanked me for taking care of him, and bringing him home, and that was that.
In fact, I had practically forgotten the whole incident until I saw the announcement of his death in the paper, in December.
Mr Fratton made no comment for some moments, then he drew at his cigar, sipped some coffee, and said, not very constructively: "It's odd."
"So I thoughtthink," said Mr Aster.
"I mean," went on Mr Fratton, "I mean, you certainly did him a kindly service, but scarcely, if you will forgive me, a service that one would expect to find valued at six thousand onepound sharesstanding at eightythree and sixpence, too."
"Quite," agreed Mr Aster.
"Odder still," Mr Fratton went on, "this meeting occurred last summer. But the will containing the bequest was drawn up and signed several years ago." He again drew thoughtfully on his cigar. "And I cannot see that I am breaking any confidence if I tell you that it superseded an earlier will drawn up twelve years before, and in that will also, the same clause occurred." He meditated upon his companion.
"I have given it up," said Mr Aster, "but if you were collecting oddities, you might perhaps like to make a note of this one." He produced a pocket book, and took from it a cutting. The strip of paper was headed: "Obituary. Sir Andrew VincellA Pioneer in Plastics." Mr. Aster located a passage halfway down the column, and read out: "
"It is curious to note that in his youth Sir Andrew foreshadowed none of his later interests, and was indeed articled at one time to a firm of
"Well, this is very likely Bakelite, I think. If so, it is one of the earliest of the thermosetting plastics. A man named Baekeland patented it, about 1909, I fancy. Something to go with phenol and formaldehyde."
"Thermosetting? What's that?" he enquired.
I did my best with that, and then went on to explain what little I had picked up about molecular chains and arrangements, polymerisation and so on, and some of the characteristics and uses. He did not give me any feeling of trying to teach my grandmother, on the contrary, he listened with concentrated attention, occasionally repeating a word now and then as if to fix it in his mind. This hanging upon my words was quite flattering, but I could not delude myself that they were doing anything to revive his memory.
We mustat least, I musthave talked for nearly an hour, and all the time he sat earnest and tense, with his hands clenched tightly together. Then I noticed that the effect of the brandy had worn off, and he was again looking far from well.
"I really think I had better see you home," I told him. "Can you remember where you live?"
"Fortyeight Hart Street," he said.
"No. I mean where you live now," I insisted.
But he was not really listening. His face still had the expression of great concentration.
"If only I can rememberif only I can remember when I wake up," he murmured desperately, to himself rather than to me. Then he turned to look at me again.
"What is your name?" he asked.
I told him.
"I'll remember that, too, if I can," he assured me, very seriously.
I leaned over and lifted the cover of the diary. His name was on the flyleaf, with an address in Upper Grosvenor Street. I folded the wallet and the diary together, and put them into his hand. He stowed them away in his pocket automatically, and then sat gazing with complete detachment while the porter got us a taxi.
An elderly woman, a housekeeper, I imagine, opened the door of an impressive flat. I suggested that she should ring up Sir Andrew's doctor, and stayed long enough to explain the situation to him when he arrived.
The following evening I rang up to enquire how he was. A younger woman's voice answered. She told me that he had slept well after a sedative, woken somewhat tired, but quite himself, with no sign of any lapse of memory. The doctor saw no cause for alarm. She thanked me for taking care of him, and bringing him home, and that was that.
In fact, I had practically forgotten the whole incident until I saw the announcement of his death in the paper, in December.
Mr Fratton made no comment for some moments, then he drew at his cigar, sipped some coffee, and said, not very constructively: "It's odd."
"So I thoughtthink," said Mr Aster.
"I mean," went on Mr Fratton, "I mean, you certainly did him a kindly service, but scarcely, if you will forgive me, a service that one would expect to find valued at six thousand onepound sharesstanding at eightythree and sixpence, too."
"Quite," agreed Mr Aster.
"Odder still," Mr Fratton went on, "this meeting occurred last summer. But the will containing the bequest was drawn up and signed several years ago." He again drew thoughtfully on his cigar. "And I cannot see that I am breaking any confidence if I tell you that it superseded an earlier will drawn up twelve years before, and in that will also, the same clause occurred." He meditated upon his companion.
"I have given it up," said Mr Aster, "but if you were collecting oddities, you might perhaps like to make a note of this one." He produced a pocket book, and took from it a cutting. The strip of paper was headed: "Obituary. Sir Andrew VincellA Pioneer in Plastics." Mr. Aster located a passage halfway down the column, and read out: "
"It is curious to note that in his youth Sir Andrew foreshadowed none of his later interests, and was indeed articled at one time to a firm of
Similar Books
![Taming Heather [Cariboo Lunewulf 1]](https://fs.ageofbook.com/447568/thumbs/152x264/taming-heather-cariboo-lunewulf-1.jpg)
