The squire grasped his hand and wrung it.
“Yes, I understand,” he said, sorrowfully. “I will do as you say—if he will go.”
“Tell him her life depends on it,” said the doctor, sternly.
The squire went downstairs into the library, and Bartley Bradstone turned and faced him. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips hot and dry, and his hands plucked nervously at the edge of his coat.
“Is—is she better?” he demanded, huskily.
The squire shook his head.
“My poor child is very ill, Bartley,” he said. “I fear there is—danger! You must go home!”
“Go home?” repeated Bartley Bradstone, dully.
“Yes,” said the squire; “the fact of your being here in the house agitates her—her mind is wandering. You will go home, will you not? I will send to you every hour.”
To his surprise, Bartley Bradstone made no remonstrance.