“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he acknowledged gloomily. “I’ve overdrawn my allowance already several hundreds. The mater is as poor as a church mouse and I simply daren’t ask my Uncle Ravenor, though he’s as rich as Crœsus. He might disinherit me.”
We reached the house and stole softly up the back stairs to our rooms. Cecil threw himself, dressed as he was, upon the bed. But I was in no humour for sleep, and after a cold bath I dressed and got downstairs in time for breakfast. To my surprise, de Cartienne was in the morning-room, carefully dressed as usual and with no sign in his appearance or manner of having been out all night. He was chatting lightly with Dr. Randall about some trivial matter connected with the meeting which the latter had attended the previous evening.
“Cecil is late again,” remarked the doctor, with a frown, as we began breakfast. “James, go to Lord Silchester’s room and ask him how long he will be.”
James retired and reappeared in a few minutes with a grave face.
“Lord Silchester desires me to beg you to excuse him this morning,” was the message which he brought back. “He has a very bad headache and has had no sleep.”
Dr. Randall, who was one of the kindest-hearted men breathing, looked compassionate.
“Dear me!” he said. “I’m very sorry to hear that! Certainly we will excuse him. Will he have anything sent up?”
“A cup of tea, sir, only. I have ordered it in the kitchen.”
“Poor fellow! It’s strange how he suffers from these attacks! I’m afraid he can’t be very strong,” remarked the doctor absently, as he buttered himself a piece of toast.
de Cartienne and I exchanged glances, but we said nothing.