"Delighted to keep you—especially when I'm on my back. I hope to be up soon, though, very soon. Er—Wyse is staying on too, I suppose?"
"He left this morning, early, by motor."
"Did he? Really?" He smothered his relief, but it was unmistakable. "Rather sudden, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was sudden. The fact is——"
"Why did he go? Is he coming back?"
"I don't know—well, I mean, he didn't say anything to me. No, he won't be back."
"Oh, I suppose he told Bernadette about it. I thought I heard somebody moving about the house. I'm a light sleeper, you know, especially when I'm ill. About six o'clock, I think it was. I—I suppose Bernadette's disappointed at his not staying longer?" The assumed indifference of his question was contradicted by the eagerness of his furtive glance. Arthur felt it on him; he flushed as he sat down by the bedside, seeking so hard for a form of words, for an opening—something enlightening without being brutal. Godfrey's eyes, sharpened by his ill-will and suspicion, marked the flush and the hesitation; he guessed there was something to tell. "Well?" he added, peevish at getting no immediate answer.
"She—she's gone away too this morning, Godfrey—early—before we were up."
A lean hand shot out from the bed and grasped his wrist. "Arthur?"
"Yes, old chap, I'm sorry to say—it's a bad business."