"Driving away from the Flint House."
"That old woman at this time of night?"
"Musk is bad, and she was going for the doctor herself. I offered to go instead, but she had the girl with her, and there was no stopping them."
"Bad!" echoed Carlton. "He has been bad for weeks; he may be dying—and all alone!" He dashed from the room, but was back next moment in his wideawake. "I must go to him, George! He will hate it, but I must go. Open the door, and I'll put out the light; if he's dying I shall stay."
It was a clear keen night with a worn moon curling in the west; and the hard road rang like a drum as red-coat and black ran elbow to elbow down the village, jerking a word here and there as they went.
"Been bad long, sir?"
"Sciatica for years; only just taken to his bed."
"Sciatica shouldn't kill."
"This must be something else. The man is old—and the one enemy I have left!"
They ran on. Before the Flint House came first its meadow and then its garden wall, with the gate left open, and a rude drive twisting through trees to the side of the house. "This way," said Carlton; and in half a minute they were at the side door. This also had been left open. Carlton lowered his voice, his hand upon the latch.