"What do you mean?"
"Listen. I will put a case to you. A man comes to a certain place--to
commit suicide, shall we say? But by chance he finds another man
there, so he fails in his purpose and goes away--to live. The second
man has saved the first man's life, not by being necessary to him or
prominent in his life but just by the mere physical fact of having been
in a certain place at a certain moment. You take your life today and
perhaps, some five, six, seven years hence, someone will go to death or
disaster simply for lack of your presence in a given spot or place. It
may be a runaway horse coming down a street that swerves aside at sight
of you and so fails to trample a child that is playing in the gutter.
That child may live to grow up and be a great musician, or discover a
cure for cancer. Or it may be less melodramatic than that. He may just
grow up to ordinary everyday happiness."
She stared at him. "You are a strange man. These things you say--I have
never thought of them."
"You say your life is your own," went on Mr. Satterthwaite. "But can
you dare to ignore the chance that you are taking part in a gigantic
drama under the orders of a divine Producer? Your cue may not come till
the end of the play--it may be totally unimportant, a mere walking-on
part, but upon it may hang the issues of the play, if you do not give
the cue to another player. The whole edifice may crumple. You, as
you, may not matter to anyone in the world, but you as a person in a
particular place may matter unimaginably."
She sat down, still staring. "What do you want me to do?" she said
simply.
It was Mr. Satterthwaite's moment of triumph. He issued orders. "I
want you at least to promise me one thing--to do nothing rash for
twenty-four hours."