The waiter looked dubious, but vanished. Marian remained in the shabby, gas-lighted hall, silently awaiting the advent of the landlady. Many people came and went, some staring curiously at Marian; but none of them would do for Mrs. Blogg, even allowing for any amount of change through lapse of years.
Then with a sudden sense of shock, she saw a tall, fair-bearded man pass out of the dining-room. There was an extraordinary familiarity in look and gesture. “Mr. Rutherford!” faltered on her lips. For a moment she forgot George Rutherford’s present condition, and the years that had passed since her last sight of him. Almost instantly it dawned upon her that he was far too young; but the faint utterance had reached his ears. He turned back, and asked—
“Did you speak? Do you want anything?”
The opportunity was not to be lost. Marian stood up respectfully, and said—
“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for Mr. Rutherford.”
“No; my name is Ackroyd, but we are counted alike. Mr. Rutherford is my uncle.”
Marian lifted a pleading face to his.
“Then perhaps, sir, you won’t mind telling me how Mr. Rutherford is, and Mrs. Rutherford, and the young ladies. I’m only just come back from foreign parts, but years ago Mr. Rutherford was good to me and mine. They told me of the accident, and I couldn’t rest till I knew more.”
“Mr. Rutherford is most seriously injured,” said Leonard Ackroyd sadly. “The doctors have very little hope that he can pull through.”
“Poor Mr. Rutherford!” murmured Marian, moved for him, yet overwhelmingly full of another dread “And the ladies, sir?”