“Is there a pain? Do try and tell me where it hurts you. Do tell me!”
No answer!
“Oh dear, oh dear! Then I’ll telephone to Sheffield for Dr. Carrington, and Dr. Lecky may as well run round straight away.”
She was moving to the door, when he said in a hollow tone:
“No!”
She stopped and gazed at him. His face was yellow, blank, and like the face of an idiot.
“Do you mean you’d rather I didn’t fetch the doctor?”
“Yes! I don’t want him,” came the sepulchral voice.
“Oh, but Sir Clifford, you’re ill, and I daren’t take the responsibility. I must send for the doctor, or I shall be blamed.”
A pause: then the hollow voice said:
“I’m not ill. My wife isn’t coming back.” It was as if an image spoke.
“Not coming back? you mean her ladyship?” Mrs. Bolton moved a little nearer to the bed. “Oh, don’t you believe it. You can trust her ladyship to come back.”
The image in the bed did not change, but it pushed a letter over the counterpane.
“Read it!” said the sepulchral voice.
“Why, if it’s a letter from her ladyship, I’m sure her ladyship wouldn’t want me to read her letter to you, Sir Clifford. You can tell me what she says, if you wish.”