“I am sorry,” faltered Sir Harold, and Hamilton smiled faintly.
“You entered the same train with us, and I did not think of you again until I saw you lying insensible some thirty yards beyond the platform of Tenterden railway station.”
“Extraordinary!” murmured Sir Harold, pressing his hands to his brow.
A sharp spasm of pain shot through his head, and he added:
“No, no! I will not try to remember. I feel dazed and bewildered. I do not wish to remember.”
“My duty was clear,” continued Hamilton. “I ought to have sent to Annesley Park at once, but I was afraid for myself—I was afraid for Theresa, because the story would have got into the papers. I thought that I would cure you, exact from you a promise of secrecy, and send you away; but now I know not what to do.”
“What is this fear that you have concerning yourself?” asked Sir Harold; but he did not press the question when he met the appealing glance of the old man.
“Some day,” Hamilton whispered in his ear, “I will tell you. It affects my darling child even more than myself. Her life, if not mine, is in danger.”
There was silence for a few minutes; then the old man went on:
“When you had been here a little while, Sir Harold, I read in the papers something of your trouble. I had not bought a newspaper for years, but I was anxious to see what they had to say about you—to learn if there was even a suspicion concerning your whereabouts.”