"Good lad!" he said.—"Well, that's your job, Geoffrey: you must use your discretion entirely. You may have to deal with a pretty desperate man, and it is possible you will feel safer with that rifle."
"Where shall I go?" asked Geoffrey.
"I thought the summerhouse on the knoll would be a good place; it stands above the mist."
"Excellent. And for Jim?"
"We must be guided by the course of events. Jim will have to wait here, in any case, probably till eleven, or even later. Then I expect he will go to bed in Harry's room, where I—I can't tell you: it is all in the clouds at present. I want to spare Harry horror. Anyhow, he will stop here until I tap twice on the panel outside. Now I can not wait. Harry may be down any minute; we dine at a quarter past. Ah! this is for you, Geoffrey," and he handed him a packet of sandwiches—"and this for you, Jim.—Now, you to the summerhouse, Geoffrey—Jim waits here: I dine with Harry. Yes, your hand, and yours. God help our work!"
Though never a voluminous talker, the doctor was even more silent than usual at dinner that night, and, despite the alertness of his eye, confessed to an extreme fatigue. Thus it was that, soon after ten, he and Harry went upstairs; he straight to his room, the latter to tap discreetly at the door of the sick room and learn the latest of the patient.
The change of Harry's room from the one he usually occupied to that communicating with the doctor's caused no comment, either silent or spoken, from him, nor did the loss of the key seem to him in any way remarkable. He came straight from his visit to Mr. Francis, to give the news to the doctor.
"Still sleeping," he said, "and sleeping very quietly, so Sanders tells me. And I—I feel as if I should sleep the clock round! I really think I shall go to bed at once."
He went through the doctor's room and turned on his light, then appeared again in the doorway.
"Got everything you want?" he asked. "Have a whisky and soda?"