“And you are come to see my boy—my poor Tom?” said the woman, pressing Bob’s hand warmly, and struggling vainly to keep back the tears.
“Is he here?” asked Bob, dumfounded by the contradictory state of things; for it was apparent from the woman’s question that Tom was at home, and, he being at home, why such grief?
“I’m so glad you came to see him, for he thought so much of you, Master Bob,” said Mrs. Flannery, now giving way entirely to her feelings.
“I would have come before if I had known——”
“I know you would, I know you would,” interrupted the woman between sobs, “and he asked so many times for you, and now to think that you are here and he won’t know you. Oh, my poor Tom!”
“I don’t blame you for being proud, Bob. I wish I had such a case too, but then I couldn’t handle it not the way you could, Bob. None of the fellers could, not one of ’em, Bob, for you do everything in such a grand way, you know.”
These words, so familiar yet so ominously strange, fell upon Bob Hunter like a messenger of death.
“Oh, what is it, Mrs. Flannery? What has happened to Tom?” cried he, pale with fright.
“It’s his head, Master Bob—gone since morning—rambling on just like this—detectives, and I don’t know what all.”
“Have you had a doctor to see him?” asked Bob, his mind turning quickly to practical measures.