“I know he is dead, but tell me how it happened,” I said. “There is no danger; I am quite strong now.”
Mr. Earl took my hand and told me in a low, calm voice, all he knew of the tragedy. He only knew, however, that the lamp had exploded and that Rayel had been horribly burned by the oil.
“I suppose,” said he, “that the lamp was on a table near his bed when it exploded. In a moment the whole room was afire, and you, no doubt, being asleep at the time, he lifted you up and ran with you down the stairway and out of the open door. But in the meantime he had been horribly burned, and he fell in a faint as soon as he reached the pavement. Strangely enough you were unconscious for some moments, although you were not badly burned. Probably it was the smoke.”
Then no one knows, thought I, what really did happen that night. The lamp must have fallen almost directly upon Rayel's head, and the oil had no doubt saturated his hair and clothing.
“And the house?” I asked. “Is that—”
“In ashes,” he replied.
Then every trace of that strange event, which no eye save mine had witnessed, was wiped out forever. The hideous secret had better never be told.
“If I was not badly burned, tell me why I have been lying ill.”
“Brain fever, my boy,” said he. “Too much excitement, I presume—but you're out of danger now, and will be on your feet again in a few days.”
Fortunately the latter assurance was rightly spoken. The first day that brought me strength enough to put on my clothes and walk about the house, Mr. Earl invited me into the library to talk business. We were no sooner seated than he unlocked a drawer and handed me a document to read.