Then Miss Berengaria sent Alice downstairs to heat some wine, and made Michael go to bed. He was as weak as a child, and simply let her do what she liked. With some difficulty she managed to put him between the sheets, and then washed his face and hands. Finally, on Alice returning with the wine and some bread, she fed him with sops of the latter dipped into the former. After this, as Michael displayed symptoms of drowsiness, she prepared to leave him to a sound sleep. "And Payne shall see you to-morrow."
"But I'll be safe—safe," said the sick man, half starting up.
"Of course. Lie down and sleep."
Michael strove to say something, then sank back on his pillows. The two hurried out of the room and down the stairs feeling like conspirators. Not until they were safe in the drawing-room with the door closed did they venture to speak, and then only did so in whispers. Alice was the first to make a remark.
"If I hadn't seen Bernard this very day, I should have been deceived, aunt. Did you ever see so wonderful a likeness?"
"Never," admitted Miss Berengaria. "But how the deuce"—she was always a lady given to strong expressions—"does the man expect to pass himself off to you as Bernard? There's lots of things Bernard has said about which he must know nothing."
"I can't understand it myself. Perhaps he came to tell the truth."
"Humph!" Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose. "I don't think a man who would commit a murder would tell the truth. My flesh creeped when I touched him. All the same, there's pluck in the fellow. A pity he is such a scamp. Something might be made of him."
"Do you think he has got himself up like this to—"
"No, no!" snapped Miss Plantagenet, "the man's illness is genuine. I can see for myself, he's only skin and bone. I wonder how he came to be in such a plight?"