The parlour at Putnam’s had seen much intimate communion between these two high and tranquil spirits over causes that were going ill and souls reluctant to be saved.  The vicar always came to Putnam’s:  Mrs. Woodburn never went to the Vicarage.  That was partly because the vicar’s wife was a stout and strenuous churchwoman who cherished a genuine horror of what she called “chapel” as the most insidious and deadly foe of the spirit, and still more because Mrs. Haggard was a woman, and a jealous one at that.

* * * * *

It was a few days after the National that the vicar made one of his calls at Putnam’s.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Woodburn in her direct and simple way after the first greeting.

She knew he never came except on business.

“It’s that wretched fellow Joses,” he answered.  “He’s been in some scrape at the National, I gather, and got himself knocked about.  Somehow he crawled back to his earth.  I rather believe Mr. Silver paid his train-fare and saw him through.”

“Is he dying?” asked Mrs. Woodburn.

The vicar replied that the parish nurse thought he was in a very bad way.

“Is she seeing to him?”

“She’s doing what she can.”

“We’d better ask Dr. Pollock to go round and look at him,” said Mrs. Woodburn.  “Don’t you bother any more, Mr. Haggard.  I’ll see that the best is done.”

She telephoned to the Polefax doctor.

That afternoon he called at Putnam’s and made his report.

“He’s in a very bad way, Mrs. Woodburn,” he said.  “Advanced arterial deterioration.  And the condition is complicated by some deep-seated fear-complex.”

The doctor was young, up-to-date, and dabbling in psycho-therapy.

“Fear of death?” asked Mrs. Woodburn.

“Fear of life, I think,” the other answered.  “He wouldn’t talk to me.  And I can’t, of course, attempt a mental analysis.”

Mrs. Woodburn had no notion what he meant, and believed, perhaps rightly, that he did not know himself.

“He’s been unfortunate,” she said.

“So I guessed,” answered the young man.  “He asked me who sent me, and when I told him said he’d be grateful if you’d call on him.”

“I’ll go round.”

Toward evening she called at the cottage.

Mrs. Boam showed her up.

Joses lay on a bed under the slope of the roof, his head at the window so that he could look out.

His face was faintly livid, and he breathed with difficulty.

Mrs. Woodburn’s heart went out to him at the first glance.

“I’m sorry to see you like this, Mr. Joses,” she said gently.  “You wanted to see me?”

“Well,” he answered, “it was Miss Woodburn I wanted to see.”  He looked at her wistfully out of eyes that women had once held beautiful.  “D’you think she’d come?”

“I’m sure she will,” the other answered reassuringly.