John Van Heldre did not ask for his confidential clerk for two days more, the greater part of which time he spent in sleep; but in the intervals he talked in a low voice to his wife or Madelaine, not even alluding once, to their great surprise, to the cause of his illness.
“He must know it, mamma,” said Madelaine, sadly; “and he is silent, so as to spare me.”
At last the demand for Crampton was made, and the old clerk heard it looking eager and pleased.
“At last, ma’am,” said Crampton, rubbing his hands.
“You’ll go up very quietly, Mr Crampton,” said Mrs Van Heldre. “If you would not mind.”
She pointed to a pair of slippers she had laid ready. The old clerk looked grim, muttered something about the points of his toes, and ended by untying his shoes, and putting on the slippers.
Madelaine was quite right, for no sooner had Van Heldre motioned the clerk to a chair by the bed’s head, learned that all was right in his office, and assured the old man that he was a-mending fast, than he opened upon him regarding the attack that night.
“Was that money taken?” he said quickly.
“Is it right for you to begin talking about that so soon?” replied Crampton.
“Unless you want me to go backwards, yes,” said his employer, sharply. “There, answer my questions. I have nothing the matter now; only weak, and I cannot ask any one else.”