“You’ll excuse me—Mr Poynter, I think,” said Mark; “but I have some private business to transact with Dr Chartley.”
“Yes, I’ll excuse you as much as you like. I’ve got private business with Doctor Chartley, too.”
“Why, Mark,” cried Hendon, “have you found out anything about your loss?”
“Yes. No. Well, yes; I have learned something,” cried Mark excitedly, and he glanced again angrily at Poynter.
But the latter’s unwelcome presence seemed to be ignored by all, in the intense excitement of the moment. For Rich threw herself upon her knees at her father’s feet, and took his hands.
“Father dear,” she said gently, “I want you to try and remember something.”
“Yes, my dear, yes—certainly, certainly,” said the old man, bending down to kiss her tenderly.
“That night, you know, when—when you were taken ill.”
“Yes, my love, that night I was taken ill? Was I taken ill?”
“Yes, dear; but you are nearly well now. Do you remember Mr Heath coming? Try and remember, dear.”