Colonel Martyns face took an added gloom.
“Bad, I fear.”
Wareham glanced quickly at him.
“Danger?”
“Afraid so.”
Silence. The grey stones at Wareham’s feet grew for a moment indistinct, then he put a question in an unchanged voice.
“I’m in the dark, remember. What is it, illness or accident?”
“Oh, illness—in fact, typhoid. They say the seeds were in him when he came, then everything aggravated the attack. I felt doubtful about him from the day after you left, but one couldn’t get him to knock off. At last he collapsed at Molde, and the only possible thing was to put him on the steamer and come down to Bergen, where he could be better seen to. We got here on Monday.”
At the end of a few steps, Wareham remarked—
“I wish I had brought a doctor.”