"I have just verified your statement in a French medical directory and I must apologise to you for having jumped at conclusions in the way I did. Pray, forgive me——"
Crichton bowed rather distantly. He didn't feel over-kindly to the man who had forced him into such a quagmire of lies.
"Now as to—" Cyril hesitated a moment; he detested calling the girl by his name. "Now—as to—to—the patient. Have you any idea when she is likely to recover consciousness?"
"Not the faintest. Of course, what you tell me of her mental condition increases the seriousness of the case. With hysterical cases anything and everything is possible."
"But you do not fear the—worst."
"Certainly not. She is young. She will receive the best of care. I see no reason why she should not recover. Now if you would like to remain near her——"
There seemed a conspiracy to keep him forever at the girl's side, but this time he meant to break away even if he had to fight for it.
"I shall, of course, remain near her," Cyril interrupted hastily. "I have taken lodgings in Half Moon Street and shall stay there till she has completely recovered. As she has lately shown the most violent dislike of me, I think I had better not attempt to see her for the present. Don't you agree with me?"
"Certainly. I should not permit it under the circumstances."
"I shall call daily to find out how she is, and if there is any change in her condition, you will, of course, notify me at once." Crichton took out a card and scribbled his address on it. "This will always find me. And now I have a rather delicate request to make. Would you mind not letting any one know the identity of your patient? You see I have every hope that she will eventually recover her reason and therefore I wish her malady to be kept a secret. I have told my friends that my wife is in the south of France undergoing a species of rest cure."