"I have told you a dozen times to keep this window closed," he said, severely, to Chalks.
"I don't open it, sir," protested the valet. "Dr. Wentworth--"
"He has his views and I have mine," said Jerce, imperiously. "Mr. Horran is my patient, and Dr. Wentworth is merely called in, as a local practitioner, to act while I am absent. The window must be kept closed day and night. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir," said Chalks, sulkily. "I think master is waking, sir." Both Jerce and Clarice turned towards the bed, and saw that Horran was sitting up. He smiled in a dreamy way, when he caught sight of his old friend, but seemed disinclined to talk. Jerce felt the man's pulse, and listened to the beating of his heart. Then he produced an ophthalmoscope, and examined the eyes, turning up the lids delicately with his fingers. After a few minutes he drew back with a puzzled expression and shook his head, while Horran, in a semiconscious condition, sank back on his pillow.
"Well?" asked Clarice, eagerly.
Jerce shrugged his shoulders. "As usual, I can say nothing," he replied, in a low voice. "I can find no trace of optic-neuritis, and the visual acuity is normal. On my next visit, when Wentworth is present, I shall make a more precise examination."
"What is to be done?"
"Nothing at present. I never met with a more interesting, or more perplexing case in all my experience. I would give much to know the true cause of these symptoms. I must return to town by the three o'clock train," concluded the doctor, glancing at his watch.
"No!" said a strong voice from the bed, and there they saw Horran, sitting up, apparently wide awake. The sudden change was one quite characteristic of his mysterious disease. "No," repeated the sick man, with an anxious glance at Jerce, "you and I must have a talk, Daniel. Things must be settled between us."
"Yes, yes," said Jerce, good-naturedly; then sank his voice to address Clarice. "He apparently wants to talk about his will. Leave me alone with him. Take Chalks with you."