The Place of the Lion by Charles Williams Page A

ventured …”
    â€œCertainly, certainly,” Dr. Rockbotham said. “These notorieties, eh? Famous men, and so on. Well, yes. I’m afraid he is ill.”
    â€œSeriously?” Anthony asked.
    â€œO well, seriously——” The doctor paused. “An affection of the brain, I very much fear. He’s more or less in a state of unconsciousness, and of course in such cases it’s a little difficult to explain in non-technical language. A nurse has been installed, and I’m keeping a careful watch. If necessary I shall take the responsibility of getting another opinion. You don’t, I suppose, know the name or address of any of his friends or his solicitor, do you?”
    â€œI’m afraid not,” Anthony said.
    â€œIt’s a little difficult position,” Dr. Rockbotham went on. “His housekeeper knows of no one; of course I haven’t looked at his papers yet … if I could get in touch with anyone …”
    â€œIf I can do anything——” Anthony offered. “But I’ve no personal acquaintance with Mr. Berringer; only a general knowledge of his name.” And that, he thought, only since the day before yesterday. But he wasn’t going to stick at trifles now.
    â€œMy dear,” said Mrs. Rockbotham, “perhaps Mr. Durrant would like to see Mr. Berringer.”
    â€œI don’t see that Mr. Durrant would gain much by that,” the doctor answered. “He’s lying perfectly still and unconscious. But if,” he went on to the young man, “I may take it that you represent a widespread concern …”
    â€œI represent,” Anthony said, “what I believe may be a very widespread concern.” It seemed to him utterly ridiculous to be talking like this, but he couldn’t burst out on these two people with his supernatural menagerie. And yet this woman ought to have realized something.
    â€œâ€¦ don’t know that I wouldn’t welcome your association,” Dr. Rockbotham concluded. “We professional men have to be so careful. If you’d care to come out with me to-morrow morning—about twelve——?”
    â€œI should be”—no, Anthony felt he couldn’t say delighted or pleased at going back to that house—“honoured.” Honoured! “What’s honour?… Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday.” “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if I ended by being he that died o’ Wednesday,” he thought grimly.
    â€œWhy, that will be capital,” the doctor said, “and we can see what’s best to do. You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I have to get to the surgery.”
    â€œDon’t go, Mr. Durrant,” Mrs. Rockbotham said, as Anthony rose. “Sit down and tell me how things are with The Two Camps. ”
    Anthony obediently sat down, and told his hostess as much as he thought good for her about the present state of the periodical. He persevered at the same time in bringing the conversation as close as possible to the collapse of Mr. Berringer and the last monthly meeting of the Group. Mrs. Rockbotham was very willing to talk about it.
    â€œMost disconcerting for Miss Tighe,” she said, “though I must say she behaved very charmingly about it. So good-natured. Of course no one had any idea that Dora Wilmot would go off like that.”
    â€œMiss Wilmot is a friend of yours?” Anthony threw in casually.
    â€œWe’ve been connected in a number of things,” Mrs. Rockbotham admitted, “the social fêtes every summer and this Study Group and the Conservative Committee. I remember she was a great deal of use with the correspondence at the time of the first Winter Lectures we got up to amuse the poorer people. I believe she went to some of them—a good simple soul. But this——!”
    â€œShe’s belonged to the town for a good while?” Anthony asked.
    â€œBorn