“But are you sure, sir?” said Clive, in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes, I am sure,” said the Doctor. “I have been watching him for the past six months in doubt. Now I know. Will you tell him, or shall I?”
“Tell him!” faltered Clive.
“Yes; a man in his position must have so much to do about his money affairs—winding up matters, while his mind is still strong and clear.”
“But he is well and happy,” said Clive. “How could I go to him and say—”
“Here, where’s that Doctor?” came from within, in a strong voice. “Oh, there you are! It’s going on for ten, and I must have one rubber before you start.”
Five minutes later four people were seated at a card-table, one of whom was Clive Reed, whose hands were cold and damp, as he felt as if he were playing for his father’s life in some great game of chance, while in the farther drawing-room Janet Praed was singing a ballad in a low, sweet voice, and Clive’s sharp-looking, keen-eyed brother was turning over the music leaves and passing compliments, at which his sister-in-law elect uttered from time to time in the intervals of the song a half-pained, half-contemptuous laugh.