“Run round to the stables and send one of the men over for Doctor Leigh at once.”
Wilton felt too much startled to counter-order this, but before the man had gone a dozen steps he shouted to him.
“Tell the gardener to bring a mallet and cold chisel from the tool shed.”
“Yes, sir,” and full of excitement the man ran off, while his master and mistress hurried upstairs to their son’s door. But before they reached it Wilton had recovered his calmness.
“What nonsense,” he muttered. Then softly: “Here, you speak to him. Gently. Only overslept himself.”
He tapped, and signed to his wife.
But her voice sounded full of agitation, as she said:
“Claud, dear; it’s getting very late.” Then louder: “Claud! Claud, my dear, are you unwell?” Then with aery of agony, “Claud! Claud, my darling! Oh, pray, pray speak to me, or you’ll break my poor heart!”
“Here, stand aside,” cried Wilton, who was thoroughly startled now. He seized the handle of the door, turned it, and tried to force it open, but in vain. The next moment he was about to lay his shoulder close down to the keyhole, when Kate’s maid came running up to them.
“Mrs Wilton! Mrs Wilton!” she cried; “pray, pray come! My dear young lady! Oh, help, help! I ought to have spoken sooner. What shall I do?”