A FRIEND IN DEED

Precisely how long she remained alone in her sitting-room, Helen never knew; but it cannot have been the long hours it seemed, seeing that Simpkins did not appear to fetch the tea-tray, nor did Nurse send down any message from the nursery.

Helen had wept herself into the calm of exhaustion, and was trying to decide what her next move should be, when the hoot of a motor sounded in the park.  In another moment she heard it panting at the door.  Then the bell pealed.

With the unfailing instinct of her kind, to hide private grief and show a brave front to the world, Helen flew to the mirror, smoothed her tumbled hair, put away her damp handkerchief; and, standing calmly beside the mantel-piece, one foot on the fender, awaited her unexpected visitor.

She heard voices in the hall, then Simpkins opened the door and tried to make an announcement, but some unseen force from behind whirled him away, and a broad-shouldered young man in an ulster, travel-stained and dishevelled, appeared in his stead, shut the door upon Simpkins, and strode into the lamplight, his cloth cap still on the back of his head, his keen dark eyes searching Helen’s face eagerly.

His cap came off before he spoke to her; but, with his thick, short-cropped hair standing on end, a bare head only added to the wildness of his appearance.

He stopped when he reached the tea-table.

“Where’s Ronnie?” he said, and he spoke as if he had been running for many miles.

“My husband is in the studio,” replied Helen, with gentle dignity.

“What’s he doing?”

“I believe he is playing his ’cello.”

“Oh, lor!  That wretched Infant!  Is he all right?”

“So far as I know.”

“What time did he get here?”

“At half-past four.”

The dishevelled young man glanced at the clock.

“Oh, lor!” he said again.  “To think I’ve travelled night and day and raced down from town in a motor to get here first, and he beat me by an hour and a half!  However, if he’s all right, no harm’s done.”

He dropped into Ronnie’s chair, and rumpled his hair still further with his hands.

“I must try to explain,” he said.

Then he lifted a rather white, very grubby face to Helen’s.  His lips twitched.

“I’m dry,” he said; and dropped his face into his hands.

Helen rang the bell.

“Bring whisky and soda at once,” she ordered, the instant Simpkins appeared in the doorway.

Then she crossed over, and laid her hand lightly on her visitor’s broad shoulder.

“Don’t try to explain,” she said kindly, “until you have had something.  I am sure I know who you are.  You appear in all sorts of cricket and football groups in Ronnie’s dressing-room.  You are Ronnie’s special chum, Dick Cameron.”