“Indeed? It has to me. But fill your glass, my dear boy—a glass of port.”
Neil shook his head.
“Then I think,” said Sir Denton in a hurried, nervous way, “we will go up to the drawing room. It is getting late—the—er—the butler was waiting at the door as I came down—er—to clear away.”
“And your patient?” said Neil, making an effort to take an interest in his host’s affairs. “Better?”
“Eh? My patient? Yes, yes, I think so. Along interview, though.”
He led the way to the door, and then up the broad staircase of the great sombre old house, but only to halt on the landing.
“Go in,” he said. “I will join you soon.”
Neil entered slowly, and the door was closed behind him, as he went on across the wide, dim room to where a fire glowed. His eyes were cast down, and the place was so feebly lit by the shaded lamps and a pair of wax candles that he had reached the middle before he became aware that a figure in black had risen from a chair by the fire and was standing supporting itself by one hand resting upon the great marble mantelpiece.
Neil stopped short, with his heart beating violently. Then, after taking a couple of steps forward with outstretched hands, he checked himself again.
“You here?” he cried hoarsely; and he crossed to the other side of the fireplace. “Sir Denton did not tell me. I did not know.”