Without an instant’s hesitation Rycroft took the already signed document, thrust it into an envelope, directed it in full and stamped it. Then he went to the telegraph messenger who was still waiting outside.
“No answer to the cable, but take this at once to the post-office and register it,” he said; “here is money—you can keep the change.”
The man departed on his errand, carrying the signed document.
Rycroft now bent over Ogilvie. There was a slightly blue tinge round his lips, but the rest of his face was white and drawn.
“Looks like death,” muttered Rycroft. He unfastened Ogilvie’s collar and thrust his hand beneath his shirt. He felt the faint, very faint beat of the heart.
“Still living,” he murmured, with a sigh of relief. He applied the usual restoratives. In a few moments Ogilvie opened his eyes.
“What has happened?” he said, looking round him in a dazed way. “Oh, I remember, I had a message from London.”
“Yes, old fellow, don’t speak for a moment.”
“I must get back at once; the child——”