NOT DEAD
Mayfield's face was grim and set; there was just a flash of contempt in his eyes for Speed, who was breathing hard. The dramatic part of the situation was lost on Mr. George Dashwood, who could think of nothing else beyond the speculative possibilities that Mayfield had been holding out to him.
"You don't seem to be any better," Mayfield said to Speed. "you look ghastly. Anybody would think that you had been caught in some crime."
Behind the contemptuous words there was a note of warning to Speed. Anybody less blind than George Dashwood would have noticed how agitated he was. Speed caught just a glimpse of his own features in a quaint old mirror over the fireplace. He could see that he was green and grey by turns; he started at his own haggard face. Small wonder, then, that Mayfield had given him a warning.
"I'm feeling like a corpse," he said. "It's agony for me to sit up any longer. If you don't mind, I think I'll go to bed."
"Why not try the fresh air?" Dashwood suggested. "It is a cure sometimes."
"Drizzling with rain," Speed replied. "Darnley turned up the collar of his overcoat as he passed the window. I could see him from behind the screen. On the whole, I should be far better between the sheets."
As he spoke Speed shot a questioning glance at Mayfield. The latter nodded.
"Perhaps it would be as well," he said; "if you feel as seedy as that. I must not be long, either, as I have to leave pretty early tomorrow. I'll just finish my discussion with Mr. Dashwood over a cigar, and then I'll follow your example. I suppose the butler comes around and fastens up all the windows?"
"The rest of the house," Speed explained. "I generally fasten the windows here myself. I'll leave you to do it tonight, Mayfield. Don't forget. One never knows what sort of person is hanging about a house like this."