"Glad of your company. Claudine, tell Mr. Sinclair that I will be with him directly."
"Oui, monsieur," and the little girl vanished.
"I wish Sinclair would get well or something," grumbled Bowman, as they walked to the lower end of the main street of the village. "It's hard luck for me to be tied to a sick man."
"Still he has the worst of it," suggested Fred, who was not altogether pleased with the cold selfishness of his companion.
"Yes, I suppose so; but it isn't right that I should suffer for his misfortune."
"Do you employ a doctor?"
"Yes; I called in a doctor once—a Frenchman—Dr. St. Hilaire. He left some medicines, and Sinclair takes them."
"He doesn't seem to get better, then?"
"At any rate he is very slow about it," said Bowman, who spoke as if his unfortunate friend were in fault.
At last they reached the cottage. It was very small, containing three rooms and an attic. Bowman opened the door, and entered what might perhaps be designated as the sitting-room, though it contained a bed, on which, propped up by pillows, lay James Sinclair.