Webb went to the bed, flung back the delicate coverlet, and the down quilt of crimson silk: but found nothing either there or among the pillows.
"There is nothing here, sir!"
"Look again. There must be a paper. I felt it in my hand. There must be a paper."
"Really, Mr. Walton, there is nothing of the kind."
"Look on the floor—everywhere. I tell you it was too real. Somewhere you will find it."
Webb searched the bed again, and examined the carpet, with a feeling of uneasiness.
"The fever has come back," he thought. "He is getting wild, again. What can have done it? He seemed so quiet when I went out—was sleeping like a baby."
Troubled with these thoughts, the faithful fellow went on, searching the room, without the least shadow of expectation that he would find anything. At last he rose from his knees, and repeated, "There is nothing here, sir."
Hurst uttered a deep sigh, and turned his head away, weak and despondent.
"Dreams, dreams," he thought. "She is always coming, but never comes—never. Ah, this is too cruel. Can it be so clear, and yet a dream?"