Alex would have been still more anxious, could he have seen the doctor enter his nephew’s room, and heard the short, hurried conversation which took place there.
“Do it if you can, Irving,” said the doctor, at length. “You can tell them better than I, for the boys are both so fond of you.”
Irving Wilde rose to do his bidding; but his face was deathly pale, and his knees were trembling beneath his weight. He took off his glasses and wiped them, before he could see clearly. For the first time in his young life, he was to be the bearer of a sad message, and the thought unmanned him. Then he shut his teeth together, mustered all his strength and said briefly,—
“I will. Let me take the letter, please.”
His uncle silently handed it to him; silently he turned away and walked down the hall towards number fifteen. At the door he stopped, with his hand raised, just ready to knock. He could hear the boys laughing inside the room, while he stood there outside, waiting to put an end to all their frolic. He longed to go back to his uncle, to beg him to take his place; but it was too late, he must go on. He rapped desperately.
“Come on in!” shouted Leon’s voice.
Slowly the knob turned and the door swung open, showing Lieutenant Wilde on the threshold. The boys had turned to the door, expecting to see one of their mates, Max perhaps, or Jack, come to continue the fun. At sight of their teacher’s wan white face, Harry sprang forward.
“Lieutenant Wilde!” he exclaimed in alarm. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”
With an effort, Lieutenant Wilde rallied.
“No,” he said; “I’m not ill, so don’t be frightened. I only came to bring you a message from the doctor.” And he dropped into a chair, while his fingers closed upon the letter in his hand with a nervous pressure which left the nails white and bloodless. The boys watched him anxiously, sure that something was amiss.