Alfred Marrable had become, under the influence of his feeling of resentment against Bradfield, as obstinate as he usually was yielding. He raised himself once more from his bed.
“Let me see him,” he said, sullenly.
And as Bradfield tried to soothe him, he called out all the more loudly:
“Let me see him, John. I will see him.”
So that at last John, fearing that by the time the doctor arrived Marrable would be beyond control altogether, and hearing the footsteps of the curious in the corridor outside, made a virtue of necessity.
“Be quiet!” said he, between his clenched teeth. “Be quiet, can’t you, and listen to me. The man you saw is a dangerous madman; and he is Gilbert Wryde’s son.”
Marrable sank down on the bed, trembling as if with severe cold.
“Gilbert Wryde’s son—a lunatic!” he repeated, in horror. “It is too awful! It can’t be true!”
Now that he had shot his bolt, John Bradfield was calmer in manner, and able to assume an appearance almost of indifference to the ejaculations and comments of the other.
“If you don’t believe it, you can easily see for yourself,” he said, shortly. “As soon as you can move about, you shall be shut up with him alone for an hour if you like.”