"I thought he seemed excited and unwell," said Aubrey. "What do you consider is the cause of his condition?"
"Well, the bother is, we can't exactly tell. But I should say he has been letting himself in for constant exposure to extreme heat by day, and to swampy dampness by night; not taking proper food; living in a whirl of excited imagination with no rational companionship to form an outlet; and, on the top of all this, contracted some malarial germ, which has put up his temperature and destroyed the power of natural sleep. This condition of brain has enabled him to work practically night and day at his manuscript, and I have no doubt he has written brilliant stuff, which an enchanted world will read by-and-by, with no notion of the price which has been paid for their pleasure and edification. But meanwhile, unless proper steps are taken to avert disaster, our friend Ronnie will be, by then, unable to understand or to enjoy his triumph."
Aubrey's lean face flushed. "I hope you are taking an exaggerated view," he said.
"I hope you understand," retorted Dr. Dick, "that I am doing nothing of the kind. I cannot tell you precisely what course the illness will run; the nuisance of these African jungle poisons is that we know precious little about them. But I have known Ronnie since he and I were at school together, and any poison goes straight to his brain. If he gets influenza, he never sneezes and snuffles like an ordinary mortal, but walks about, more or less light-headed, all day; and lies dry awake, staring at the ceiling all night."
"What do you recommend in this case?"
"Ah, there we arrive at my reason for coming to you. I don't know Ronnie's wife. I conclude you do."
"She is my first cousin. I have known her intimately all her life."
"Can you write to her to-night, and mail the letter so that it will reach her before he arrives home?"
"I have every intention of doing so."
Dick Cameron sat forward, eagerly.