Hugh repressed his impulse to anathematise Captain Pym as a liar. “My time will come; I will bide my time,” he thought. Then he turned to Mrs. Mervyn, and said, gently:
“There has been some mistake. It does not matter now. How is he?”
“Dying.”
Mrs. Mervyn gave an account of the last trying seven days: the attention of Dr. Beard, who gave no hope from the first; Lilia’s repressed anguish; the goodness of the two sick nurses; the summoning of the great Sir Edward Debenham yesterday (a mere matter of form, to state that death had proved himself conqueror, that nothing could be done to reverse the sentence). Then she was about to add something further, when Hugh asked, suddenly, hoarsely:
“If this be so, why have you come?”
“He asked for you—he wants you,” said Mrs. Mervyn. “He will not be pacified.”
“Did he know I was sent for?”
“Yes; and he knew no answer came. But it was he who said the messages could not have reached you. I would not be the one to suggest anything else.”
“You thought me a wretch, Mrs. Mervyn?”
She shrugged her shoulders.