“Yes, to-night,” said The Mackhai hastily; and he left the room, thankful for the ray of light which had come into his darkening life, but hurrying back, to find Kenneth holding tightly by Max’s hand as he kept on talking, while the doctor was letting a few drops fall from a little bottle he had brought, into a glass of water.
“There,” he said, “we’ll get him to take that, and I think we shall get some sleep afterwards. To-morrow we must hope for better things.”
But the morrow came, and the hope was not fulfilled. Kenneth Mackhai, in spite of his youth and strength, was dangerously ill, and the doctor’s face wore an anxious look.
“I have ordered my men to have everything ready for you, Mr Curzon,” said The Mackhai, with enforced calmness; and Max darted an angry glance on the man who could think of sport at a time like that.
“What, to fish, Mr Mackhai?” said the doctor quickly. “No, thank you; I’ll wait till I can go more at ease.”
“Thank you,” said The Mackhai, in a husky voice; and Max darted now a grateful look. “But pray speak plainly to me: you think my poor boy very bad?”
“Yes, sir, very bad indeed; but, please God, we’ll pull him through.”
The Mackhai drew a long and painful breath, and, as Max looked towards him, he thought he had never seen so sad a countenance before.
He stole out on tip-toe, for it seemed to him that he was not wanted there; but, as he reached the landing, The Mackhai touched him on the shoulder:
“Come back soon,” he whispered. “Kenneth seems more restful while you are here.”