His voice had changed from a soft, appealing tone to one full of angry annoyance, as he saw Max slowly rise up from the other side of the bed, where he had been seated, hidden by the curtain.
“I came to sit with poor Kenneth, sir. I beg your pardon. I’ll go now.”
“If you please,” said The Mackhai coldly, and there was a bitterly fierce look of dislike in his eyes, as he crossed toward the door and threw it open for Max to pass out; but the next moment he had closed it hastily, and he held out his hand.
Max looked at him wonderingly.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Blande,” said The Mackhai, in a low voice, full of courteous apology. “I am in trouble, and hardly know what I have been saying.”
He pointed as he spoke toward the bed, and then his countenance worked, and he wrung the boy’s hand warmly, as Max caught his, and whispered in broken tones,—
“Oh, sir, you don’t think he is so very bad?”
“I hope not, my lad, I hope not. Thank you, thank you. No, no, don’t go. You are Kenneth’s visitor and friend.”
“But do pray tell me what you think of him,” whispered Max excitedly.
“I cannot say. We shall have the doctor here soon.”