"Mrs. Darling is very bad, sir," was the answer.
"But she was distinctly better when I turned in," Carleigh offered protest.
"Yes, sir; I dare say, sir. But she's very bad this morning, sir. Her maid was in the servants' hall not ten minutes ago, sir."
"And she said she was worse?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Very much worse, sir."
Sir Caryll let a long sigh escape him. He couldn't help it. The footman heard it and drew a conclusion or two.
"They're likely to be worse in the morning, you know, sir. I had an aunt once—begging your pardon, sir—that was burned most 'orribly. She was always worse in the morning, sir."
"And she recovered—in the end?" asked the baronet anxiously.
"No, sir. Not at all, sir. She died at last, sir. In the morning, just about this time, sir."
Carleigh dropped back on his pillow, and the footman, taking the action as a signal for silence, proceeded to light a fire, to fill the bath, and to lay out a very nice array of lent linen and morning garments for the guest to select from.