'Miss Ferrier told him, sir, directly he came in.'
He turned and went to his own room.
A quarter of an hour later Roland stood outside his father's door. He opened it gently, and entered, his slippered feet treading the floor of the sick-room as silently as a nurse's.
As he stood a moment in the dim light, eyes less keen and less expectant than those looking at him from the bed might have easily mistaken him for his brother. The slight difference in breadth of shoulder and depth of chest was concealed by the loose indoor jacket he wore. There was no trace about him of his wet and muddy walk, and he looked altogether a much fitter occupant for the easy-chair that stood at the sick man's bedside than the stalwart, weather-stained, and unsympathetic-looking figure that had last sat in it.
'Rowley, why didn't you come before?' began the old man.
'Oh, I couldn't, father. It is a beastly night. I was awfully wet and muddy. I only waited to change my things, and make myself presentable. How are you to-night?'
'Your brother came up wet enough,' was all the answer.
'Did he? What a careless fellow he is. He never seems to think of that sort of thing.'
'Oh, well, I suppose you didn't know.'
'Know what, father?'