"Very sad," said Gray. "Very sad."
"Yes, indeed, and that's why I always feel for any one like that. I suppose it's memories."
"They're better off—better off where they are. I dare say it was a blow at the time, but as the years go along——"
"That's true," said the landlady, jumping up to give directions to a maid. "They say time softens the blow. And yet," she added, as Gray got up to go, "it's nice to really know. My little Erny was lost, and from that day to this we never knew if he lived or died. Not but what it's pretty certain he did die, for he wouldn't have lived without me. Well, I suppose I musn't worry you with my troubles. I'll speak to my husband about the trap."
George returned to his seat by the fire, and marvelled at the impudence of Gray in his new rôle of lunatic attendant.
"It would serve them right if I turned mad for a bit," he said spitefully, "and did a little damage all round. There's no accounting for what mad people will do."
He turned this idea over thoughtfully in his mind, wondering if it couldn't be put to account in some way.
His reflections were disturbed afresh by the sound of the landlady's voice. This time it came from the hotel hall. Somebody opened the door of George's room.
"Come in," said the voice of Gray. "He's perfectly harmless. It's a sad case. He thinks that his eyes are bad, and that he can't talk or hear."
"Deary me!" said the landlady; "and does it take three of you to look after him?"