"Kicks don't kill a man with that kind of physique. What has he got on his mind?"
"I don't know," said Peter, miserably. "The last time I saw him—"
"Find out," said the great doctor, briefly. "If you don't, he may die. He seems to have had a shock of some kind. You must work upon that line. There is nothing the matter with his body that he can't throw off. But he will not get well unless you put the idea into his head that he must."
And glancing at his watch, he bowed stiffly, and was whirled away to the station.
Peter was utterly at a loss. He had no idea what had taken Varney up the road to Stanhope's that afternoon, much less of any shock that could conceivably have come to him. But he set himself to find out. By the next morning, partly through inquiry, partly through patching two and two together, he had worked out a theory. Guesswork, of course, was rather dangerous in a delicate matter such as this; but the doctor's report after breakfast had been the very worst yet. Peter never faltered. He picked up his hat from the study table, in front of which he had been figuring these things out, and started down the hall.
Mrs. Marne was sitting quietly on the bottom step of the stairway, her dark head in her hands; and Peter was glad to see her.
"I've found out a little about that," said Peter, in a low voice. "I believe it was—to see Miss Carstairs that he came up the road that day."
"Yes," said Mrs. Marne. "I have heard that too."
"She struck me," said Peter, "as a nice little girl. Probably she doesn't understand the situation. I am going to see her now."
"She won't see you," said Mrs. Marne.