Half-an-hour later, Oldroyd was there, and busy in attendance till daybreak; while Sir John and his brother sat waiting till he joined them in the library—the calm, business-like doctor, apparently with no thought outside the condition of his patient.
He came into the room, bowed, looked from one brother to the other, and waited to be questioned.
Sir John’s lips parted, but no words came, and he turned his eyes imploringly to his brother, who drew himself up and began in his prompt military way; but his brief question was almost inaudible towards the end.
“How is she?”
“Suffering terribly from shock, sir, and exhaustion. Her left arm is fractured above the elbow; but it is the mental strain we have to fear.”
“You will stay of course?” said the major.
“I only came to you for a few moments, gentlemen, and am going back to my patient now.”
No further question was asked, and the brothers were left alone, to sit in silence till the major said,—
“You must send some kind of message over to The Warren, Jack.”
“Eh? Yes, yes, I suppose so,” said Sir John bitterly; “and get rid of these people in the house. Do that for me, Jem. I’m broken, lad—twenty years older since we shook hands last night. Who’s there?” he cried with a start, as there was a tap at the door.