“Safe as the Bank of England, sir, and the dad will be a millionaire.”
“Ah! I wish he would be a healthy man, instead of a wealthy,” said the Doctor.
“Oh, you don’t think—you have not found him worse?”
“I don’t like his looks, Clive, my boy,” said the Doctor; “and I beg that you will try to save him from all emotion. This great accession of wealth will do him no good, and—yes; what?—I didn’t ring.”
“Messenger, sir,” said the Doctor’s man, with grave earnestness and a sharp glance at Clive. “From Mr Reed’s, sir—sudden attack, and will you come at once.” Then in a hurried whisper, “Dying!”
But it sounded in trumpet-tones in Clive Reed’s ear, as with a sharp cry he sprang to his feet.
“Good heavens!” he said, “and I came on here!”
“Hush!” said the Doctor sternly. “Here, Morgan, the carriage?”
“At the door, sir.”
The Doctor nodded as he drew Clive’s arm through his own.