Chapter 9 MOTHERLESS

Sangster was writing letters in his rooms in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury when Jimmy's urgent message reached him. It was brought by one of the hotel servants, who waited at the door, yawning and indifferent, while Sangster read the hastily scrawled lines:

For God's sake come at once. Mrs. Wyatt died suddenly this afternoon, and there is no one to see to anything but me.

Dead! Sangster could not believe it. He had admired Mrs. Wyatt tremendously that night when they all went to the theatre together; she had seemed so full of life, so young to have a grown-up daughter like Christine. Oh, surely there must be some mistake.

"I'll come at once," he said. He crushed Jimmy's note into his pocket and went back for his hat. He called a taxi, and took the man from the hotel back with him; he asked him a few questions, but the man was uncommunicative, and apparently not very interested. Yes, the lady was dead right enough, so he had been told, he admitted. The gentleman-Mr. Challoner-seemed in a great way about it.

Sangster was terribly shocked. He had quite forgotten the manner of his parting with Jimmy; he was only too willing and anxious to help him in any way possible. When they reached the hotel he was shown into the Wyatt's private sitting-room. Jimmy was there at the telephone; he hung up the receiver as Sangster entered the room; he turned a white, worried face.

"Awful thing, isn't it?" he said. Even his voice sounded changed; it had lost its usual light-heartedness.

"It's given me a most awful shock," he said again. "She was as well as anything last night; nobody had any idea--" He broke off with a choke in his voice. "Poor little Christine," he said after a moment. "We can't do anything with her. I wondered if you-but I suppose you can't," he added hopelessly.

"Where is Miss Wyatt?" Sangster asked. His kind face was very grave, but there was a steadiness in his eyes-the eyes of a man who might be trusted.

"She's in her room; we had to take her away forcibly from-from her mother. . . . You don't know what a hell I've been through, old chap," said Jimmy Challoner.

Sangster frowned.

"You!" he said with faint cynicism. "What about that poor little girl, then; she--" The door opened behind them, and Christine came in. She stood for a moment looking across at the two men with blank eyes, as if she hardly recognised them. Her face was white and haggard; there was a stunned look in her eyes, but Sangster could see that she had not shed a tear. He went forward and took her hand. He drew her into the room, shutting the door quietly. Jimmy had walked over to the window; he stood staring into the street with misty eyes. He had never had death brought home to him like this before. It seemed to have made an upheaval in his world; to have thrown all his schemes and calculations out of gear; life was all at once a thing to be feared and dreaded.

He could hear Sangster talking to Christine behind him; he could not hear what he was saying; he was only too thankful that his friend had come. The last hours which he had spent alone with Christine had been a nightmare to him. He had been so unable to comfort her; he had been at his wits' end to know what to do or say. She was so utterly alone; she had no father-no brothers to whom he could send. He had wired to an uncle of whom she had told him, but it was impossible that anyone could arrive before the morning, he knew.

Sangster was just the sort needed for a tragedy such as this; was a brick-he always knew what to say and do.

The room seemed very silent; the whole world seemed silent too, as if it had stopped aghast at this sudden tragedy which had been enacted in its midst.

Then Christine began to sob; the most pathetic, loneliest sound it was through the silent room. Jimmy felt himself choking-felt his own eyes blurred and misty.

He turned impulsively. Christine was huddled in one of the big chairs, her pretty head down-flung on an arm. Sangster stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

Jimmy never looked at his friend, or he might have learned many, many things from the expression of his eyes just then as he moved back silently and let Jimmy pass.

He fell on his knees beside Christine. For the moment, at least, everything else in the world was forgotten between them; she was just a motherless, broken girl sobbing her heart out-just the girl he had once loved with all a boy's first ardour. He put his arms round her and drew her head down, so that it rested on his shoulder, and her face was hidden in his coat.

"Don't cry, my poor little girl," said Jimmy Challoner, with a break in his own young voice. "Oh, Christine, don't cry."

Sangster, watching, saw the way her arms crept upwards till they were clasped round Jimmy's neck; saw the way she clung to him; heard the anguish in her voice as she said:

"I've got no one now, Jimmy; no one at all."

Jimmy looked up, and, across her bowed head, his eyes met those of his friend with a sort of defiance in them.

"You've got me, Christine," he said with a new sort of humbleness.