“Where is Mr. Sheridan?” he demanded.
Fletcher was carrying a wine-glass and seemed surprised at the query.
“He was here five minutes ago, your lordship. Mr. Sheridan looked very bad when I let him in, sir. I was just getting him this brandy.”
“I suppose he tired of waiting,” thought Gordon. “The Clermont has a new part to-night, and Sherry’s bound for Fops’ Alley.”
As he buttoned his great-coat, he heard a cry from the valet, and ran into the drawing-room to find Fletcher bending over the form of the old wit, prostrate on the floor, moveless, speechless, his face swept by a bluish pallor.
“Good God!” cried Gordon. “Help me lift him and fetch a doctor at once!”
With Fletcher’s aid the old man was placed upon a sofa, and Gordon loosed the stiff neckerchief, put a cushion under the recumbent head and chafed the sick man’s hands.
The physician looked grave when he came.
“A paralytic stroke,” he said. “He must be taken home.”