“Here?” exclaimed the brothers in a breath; and then they exchanged glances, each silently saying to the other, “The poor fellow is wandering.”
“There,” said Leslie, “I can think clearly now. It all seemed like a dream. You must know, Mr Vine. I must tell you,” he added piteously. “Mr Vine, what do you propose doing?”
“Hush!” said George Vine, laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, “you are ill and excited now. Don’t talk at present. Wait a little while.”
“Wait?” cried Leslie, growing more excited. “You do not know what you are saying. How long have I been lying here? What time is it?”
“About nine,” said Vine kindly. “Come, come, lie back for a few moments. We’ll get some cold water, and bathe your temples.”
“Man, you will drive me mad,” cried Leslie. “Do you not—no, you have not understood yet. Louise—Miss Vine!”
George Vine staggered as if he had been struck, and his brother caught his arm as he stood there gasping, with his hand to his throat.
“What do you mean?” cried Uncle Luke sternly.
“I am sick and faint,” said Leslie, pressing his hands to his brow, as if unable to think clearly. “I remember now. I came in to ask about Mr Van Heldre, and a stranger was with Miss Vine. I tried to stop him—till you returned. We struggled, and he threw me. I recollect no more.”
“You’re mad!” said Uncle Luke savagely. “Where is Louise?”