“How is Mrs. Bradstone this morning, sir?” asked Mr. McAndrew, standing right in the way of the policemen and their charge.
“Very ill, dangerously ill still,” said Bartley Bradstone, still with his eyes on Faradeane.
Faradeane started and stopped. He had caught the reply. His face went white, and seemed to quiver, as if with some sudden fury.
“Ill! Dangerously ill!” he said in a hollow voice.
There was still a crowd in the corridor, and all eyes were turned upon him.
“Move on, please, sir,” said the policeman, not roughly but firmly.
“One moment,” said Faradeane, with a kind of gasp. “Give me one moment. Is—is she in danger, do you say?”
“You must move on, sir; you cannot be permitted to talk,” said the sergeant.
Faradeane sighed and inclined his head, and was passing on, when Mr. McAndrew, who had never taken his eyes from his face, said:
“If Mr. Faradeane desires it, I can give him all the news; but I can only see him at his desire now.”