"Get some one from London," he said to the old doctor, with an energy which surprised him. "Get the best man—the very best: we must save him!"
"You can send for Sir Astley," said the doctor, quietly; "but if we send for the whole college of physicians, they can do no more than we are doing. It is concussion of the brain, and the poor fellow's magnificent constitution will fight for him far more effectually than we can. He shall have every attention, trust me."
Austin Ambrose acquiesced. Sir Astley might have seen Blair, and recognize him, and, in any case, might talk about the affair when he got back to London, and cause inquiries to be made.
So the days wore on. No man could have received more attention than Blair got at the hands of the old doctor, whose interest in the case increased as it became more critical.
Austin Ambrose, too, watched over him, as the people of the house declared, "like a brother!"
The case still puzzled the doctor, and he went one day and looked at the spot where Blair had been found; but the feet of the people who had searched for him had blotted out the impression of the struggle between Pyke and Blair, and there was no trace left of the murderous assault.
Chance had worked hard in Austin Ambrose's behalf, and if Blair should only recover, all might yet go well with his plans.
On the eighth day, toward evening, the doctor, who had been bending over the bed with his fingers on Blair's pulse, looked up suddenly, and motioned to the nurse and Austin Ambrose.
"Shut out the light," he said, in a low voice.
They drew the window curtains, and Austin Ambrose stepped up on tiptoe.