"Blair——" Thorpe said, speaking with difficulty. "Mr. Blair,—you know,—he's—he's very ill——"
"Ill, sir? Where is he?"
"In bed—in his room—go in, Hastings."
The man went in, and it needed only a glance to tell him that Blair's illness, whatever it had been, was fatal.
"He's dead," Hastings said, in an awe-stricken voice. "He's surely dead."
"Well, do something," Thorpe said; "what's the thing to do? Get a doctor?"
"A doctor couldn't help him, but yes, we ought to send for one. Who, sir?"
"I don't know. I've never had a doctor. This unnerves me, Hastings. I wish you'd do what's necessary."
"Ain't you a friend of his, sir? Can't you show a little heart?"
Hastings had never liked Thorpe, but had always been an admirer of Gilbert Blair. There was no special reason for this, unless that Blair was of a kindlier nature, and rarely found fault with Hastings, while Thorpe was sometimes irascible and even unreasonable.