“Did they catch the Ghost?”
At first, Mrs. Hartel thought the question was but another rambling question incident to the abating fever, and was about to utter one of the evasive replies that are offered to fevered invalids, when something in Allan’s face made her understand that he was coming out of that long dream into which his mind had fallen. Then she answered him quite truthfully:—
“No. They have not found him, Allan.”
“Good! I believe now that I wanted him to get away.”
“But you must not worry about that.”
“How many days’ start has he had?”
“He has had just a month.”
“A month?” Allan turned his eyes to his mother. She did not seem to be joking. “A month?”
His mother came over and stroked his hair. “Yes, a month—a long month. And my boy has had a very long sleep.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Allan asked. “I see,” he said, looking into his mother’s tired but cheerful eyes, “I see, I have been sick. Oh, I know it now! I can remember that the queerest things were going on in my head! One day I think it seemed to be a camera, and the lens was red hot, somehow, and somebody—who was it?—was pulling the bellows out too far. Great Scott! I thought they would break it.”