Chapter Thirteen.
The Wedding Day.
Four weeks had passed since Malcolm Stratton’s insane attempt—four weeks of an utterly prostrating illness from which he was slowly recovering, when, one morning, Guest entered the room where Brettison was seated by his friend’s couch, and made an announcement which wrought a sudden change in the convalescent.
“I expected it,” he said quietly; and then, after a pause, “I will go with you.”
Guest opened and shut his mouth without speaking for a few moments. Then:
“Go—with me? You go with me? Why, it would be madness.”
“Madness, madness, old fellow,” said Stratton feebly, “but I tell you I am quite strong now.”
“Very far from it,” said Brettison.
“And I say so too,” cried Guest. “Look here, old fellow, do you mean to assert that you are compos mentis?”