‘Oh, I must have thought I was hungrier than I really am. I can’t eat anything now. These long rides take it out of a fellow in such a way.’
‘Did you have lunch at the Brydges?’
‘Yes. They have quite a lot of people staying there. That was one reason why I was so late. After lunch I went with Tom to the stables to see his new hunter. It is a beauty, too.’
Roger sat silent, misliking the unusual volubility of Michael’s speech and excuses. Michael himself, in the meantime, had gone off on a new tack, and was describing his adventures at a farmhouse on the moors, and the extraordinary symptoms enumerated by the mistress of it as requiring his advice. Dr. Rowntree, pleased to see that Michael was what he called ‘plucking up a bit,’ did not notice anything forced or unnatural in his manner. Roger’s forebodings grew every moment darker, and he was thankful when at last they rose from the table and went into the library. On their way thither, however, he happened to touch Michael’s sleeve with his hand, and found that it was wet.
‘Why, man!’ exclaimed he, ‘you said you were wet through, and you have got on the identical togs that you came in with. What an ass you are, Michael!’ he added, gently. ‘Go upstairs and change, right away, or you won’t get to Balder Hall to-night.’
‘I’m not going to Balder Hall—I think not,’ said Michael, wearily, as he let Roger push him towards the stairs, up which he began slowly and aimlessly to climb.
‘There’s something wrong—something wrong—something wrong,’ kept ringing through Roger’s mind. ‘And something more than I know of.’
Michael’s room was over the study. Roger, listening intently, heard him go into it, move about for a moment, and then all was quiet. He sat with a book in his hand, and waited till his suspense grew almost to agony. At last he could be quiet no longer. He went upstairs and knocked softly at Michael’s door. There was no answer. When he had tried once or twice again, he opened the door and went in. The candle burned on the dressing-table. Michael was in a large old easy-chair by the bedside, his head sunk on his breast, his eyes closed, and an open letter drooping from his right hand.
‘Still in those wet clothes,’ muttered Roger. ‘He’ll kill himself.’
He went up to him, and touched him on the shoulder. Michael awoke with a start, and looked confusedly around him.