“It was a distinct attack, then,—a seizure of some sort?” asked Massingbred.
“Yes, I think they said so,” said he, lighting his cigar.
“But he has rallied, has n't he?”
“Well, I don't fancy he has. He lifts his eyes at times, and seems to look about for some one, and moves his lips a little, but you could scarcely say that he was conscious, though my mother insists he is.”
“What does Schubart think?”
“Who minds these fellows?” said he, impatiently. “They're only speculating on what will be said of themselves, and so they go on: 'If this does not occur, and the other does not happen, we shall see him better this evening.'”
“This is all very bad,” said Massingbred, gloomily—“It's a deuced deal worse than you know of, old fellow,” said Martin, bitterly.
“Perhaps not worse than I suspect,” said Massingbred.
“What do you mean by that?”
Massingbred did not reply, but sat deep in thought for some time. “Come, Martin,” said he, at last, “let us be frank; in a few hours it may be, perhaps, too late for frankness. Is this true?” And he handed to him Merl's pocket-book, open at a particular page.