“Yet there are circumstances in this case which give it the character of a preconcerted plan,” said the Prefect, thoughtfully.
“Perhaps so,” said the other, in a tone of utter indifference.
“Certainly, the companion of the man who is missing, and of whom no clew can be discovered, is reported to have uttered your name repeatedly in his ravings.”
“My name,—how so?” cried the stranger, hurriedly.
“Yes, my Lord, the name of your passport,—Lord Glen-core. Two of those I have placed to watch beside his bed have repeated the same story, and told how he has never ceased to mutter the name to himself in his wanderings.”
“Is this a mere fancy?” said the stranger, over whose sickly features a flush now mantled. “Can I see him?”
“Of course. He is in the hospital, and too ill to be removed; but if you will visit him there, I will accompany you.”
It was only when a call was made upon Lord Glencore for some bodily exertion that his extreme debility became apparent. Seated at ease in a chair, his manner seemed merely that of natural coolness and apathy; he spoke as one who would not suffer his nature to be ruffled by any avoidable annoyance; but now, as he arose from his seat, and endeavored to walk, one side betrayed unmistakable signs of palsy, and his general frame exhibited the last stage of weakness.
“You see, sir, that the exertion costs its price,” said he, with a sad, sickly smile. “I am the wreck of what once was a man noted for his strength.”
The other muttered some words of comfort and compassion, and they descended the stairs together.