“Go to my father, Aunt,” he said, and then drew back to lead Sir Denton into a little room much affected by the young man, half study, half museum, where the surgeon sank into a chair and leaned back gazing at the worn, troubled face before him, as if waiting for his companion to speak.
“Well, sir?” he said at last, for Sir Denton remained silent.
“Well, Elthorne,” said Sir Denton gravely.
“Don’t trifle with me. I am in agony.”
“Naturally, my dear fellow, and I am not trifling with you. I only shrank from giving you pain.”
“Then you think—” began Neil.
“No; I am sure, Elthorne. My dear boy, you have not worked with me for years without being able to come to a decision at once upon such a case as this. I can quite understand your feelings. In your horror and despair you mistrusted yourself, or tried to mistrust yourself, hoping, I presume, that you might be wrong, and sent at once for me. Is it not so?”
Neil bowed his head; and then quickly, as drowning men catch at straws, he said:
“But, Sir Denton, do you feel absolutely certain?”
“My dear Elthorne, would to Heaven I could say that there is a doubt. There is none. You know there is none.”