The notes of the flute wabbled and ceased.
"Yes, my dearest fellow," came cheerfully from above.
"I am so glad you are so much better! May I come up and see you?"
"By all means, by all means. I was just on the point of sending Sanders down to see if you would."
Harry went up the stairs three at a time, and fairly danced down the corridor. Sanders, faithful and foxlike, was outside, his hand on the latch.
"You will be very careful, my lord," he said. "We mustn't have Mr. Francis agitated again."
"Of course not," said Harry, and was admitted.
Mr. Francis was lying high in bed, propped up on pillows. The remains of his breakfast, including a hot dish, of which no part remained, stood on a side table; on his bed lay the case of the beloved flute.
"Ah, my dear boy!" he cried, "I owe you a thousand and one apologies for my conduct last night. Sanders tells me I gave you a terrible fright. You must think no more of it, you must promise me to think no more of it, Harry. I have had such seizures many times before, and of late, thank God, they have become much rarer. I had not told you about them on purpose. I did not see the use of telling you."