“Is any one with the Doctor, Wrench?”
“No, sir,” replied the man distantly, and he looked curiously at Glyn. “Aren’t you well this morning, sir?”
“Yes—no. Don’t ask questions,” cried the boy petulantly.
“All right, sir,” said the man. “I don’t want to ask no questions. There’s been too much of it lately. Suspicions and ugly looks, and the rest of it. I’d have given warning the other day, only if I had, the next thing would have been more suspicion and the police perhaps had in to ask me why I wanted to go. Shall I ask the Doctor, sir, if he will see you?”
“No,” cried Glyn, and walking past the man he tapped at the study-door, and in response to the Doctor’s deep, “Come in,” entered.
“What does this mean?” muttered Wrench. “I don’t like listening; but if I went there and put my ear to the keyhole I could catch every word; and so sure as I did somebody would come into the hall and find me at it. So I won’t go. But what does it mean? Young Severn’s found out all about it, as sure as I stand here. Then it’s one of the boys after all. Well, I don’t care about it as long as it ain’t me or Sam, so I’ll go on with my work.”
Meanwhile Glyn had entered, closed the door after him, and stood gazing at the Doctor with a curious sensation in his breast that seemed to stop all power of speaking connectedly, as he had meant to do when he had obeyed the impulse to make a clean breast to his old preceptor.
“Well, Severn,” said the Doctor gravely, as he laid down his pen, thrust up his glasses till they were stopped by the stiff grey hair, and allowed himself to sink back in his writing-chair, “you wish to speak to me?”
“Yes, sir, please; I—” Glyn stopped short.
That was all that would come, so the Doctor waited for a few moments to give him time to collect himself, and then with an encouraging smile: “Are you unwell, my boy? Do you wish to see our physician?”