But Marrable sat in a heap, with staring eyes, and with his teeth chattering, muttering to himself at intervals:
“Gilbert Wryde’s son a lunatic! Gilbert Wryde’s son!”
And then the man, who was soft-hearted, and who remembered how Gilbert Wryde had befriended him years ago, broke down, and sobbed, while Bradfield moved restlessly about the room, waiting for the doctor.
When the medical man arrived, he pronounced the injury to be of a comparatively slight nature, and told the patient that he might, with care, be able to get about again in a fortnight or three weeks.
“But,” he added, looking from one man to the other enquiringly, and perceiving that both were in a state of high excitement, “you will have to keep very quiet if you wish to be cured so soon.”
John Bradfield went as far as the end of the corridor with the doctor, and then returned to the patient, whom he found resting on his elbow, with an inquiry on his lips. And John “shied,” so to speak, at the expression of Marrable’s light grey eyes.
“Bradfield!” said he, in a husky whisper, “I want to ask you something. If the poor chap you’ve got shut up for a lunatic is Gilbert Wryde’s son, what has become of Gilbert Wryde’s money?”