At a late hour that evening Rumsey and his patient arrived at Grandcourt. A telegram had been sent to announce their visit, and all was in readiness for their reception. The old butler, Hawkins, who had lived in the family for nearly fifty years, came slowly down the steps to greet his master. Hawkins' face was pale, and his eyes dim, as if he had been indulging in silent tears. He was very much attached to little Arthur. Awdrey gave him a careless nod.
"I hope all is in readiness, Hawkins," he said, "I have brought my friend, Dr. Rumsey, with me; we should like supper—has it been prepared?"
"Yes, Mr. Robert—I beg your pardon, Squire—all is in readiness in the library."
"We'll go there after we have washed our hands," said Awdrey. "What room have you got ready for Dr. Rumsey?"
"The yellow room, Squire, in the west wing."
"That will do nicely. Rumsey, you and I will inhabit the same wing to-night. I suppose I am to sleep in the room I always occupy, eh, Hawkins?"
"Yes, sir; Mrs. Burnett, the housekeeper, thought you would wish that."
"It does not matter in the least where I sleep; now order up supper, we shall be down directly. Follow me, doctor, will you?"
Dr. Rumsey followed Awdrey to the west wing. A few moments later the two men were seated before a cheerful meal in the library—a large fire burned in the huge grate, logs had been piled on, and the friendly blaze and the fragrance of the wood filled the room. The supper table was drawn into the neighborhood of the fire, and Awdrey lifted the cover from the dish which was placed before him with a look of appetite on his face.
"I am really hungry," he said—"we will have some champagne—Hawkins, take some from"—he named a certain bin. The man retired, coming back presently with some dusty-looking bottles. The cork was quickly removed from one, and the butler began to fill the glasses.