“Very poorly, sir,” said Cashel. “She’s had to take in her bed, sir.”
“Pity. Anything serious?”
“A sudden attact, sir.”
“H’m. Well, tell her I’m going to inflict myself upon her for a day or so. Just take my traps in and I’ll go on with this fly to Limpsfield. Say I’ll be back to dinner.”
“Certainly, sir.”
The old man bustled out to get in the valise and Gladstone bag that constituted Oswald’s luggage. When he came into the hall again he found the visitor scrutinizing the tea-basket and the roll of rugs with his one penetrating eye in a manner that made him dread a question. But Oswald never questioned servants; on this occasion only he winked at one.
“Nothing wrong with the arm, sir?” asked old Cashel.
“Nothing,” said Oswald, still looking markedly at the symptoms of imminent travel. “H’m.”
He went out to the fly, stood ready to enter it, and then swivelled round very quickly and looked up at his aunt’s bedroom window in time to catch an instant impression of a large, anxious face regarding him.
“Ah!” said Oswald, and returned smiling grimly into the hall.