“Nothing, sir, only that you frightened us. It’s past eleven o’clock, and we were going to send for a doctor,” said the parlour-maid.
“No, nothing the matter. I was tired out, and overslept myself. Here, stop! Has—has Miss Laura come back?”
“No, sir.”
“That will do. Go away.”
“Hadn’t you better have a cup o’ tea, sir?” said the cook, suggesting the universal panacea.
“No, no!” he cried, so fiercely that the servants backed out, and the wretched man let his burning, confused head sink into his hands while he tried to collect his thoughts.
But it was in vain. He bathed his temples, went into the breakfast-room and tried to partake of food, but gave it up in disgust, and finally turned to the drug again.
“This can’t go on,” he muttered; “the human brain cannot stand it. Months of strain now, and my position worse than ever. And even now the police may have traced her, and she be looking vainly to me for help.”
He did not hear a ring at the front door, for he went back to his consulting-room, to sit with his head in his hands; neither did he hear the conversation going on after the closely-veiled lady who rang had been admitted.
“Gone! You think Miss Laura will not return?”