"Lady Morland is in there," murmured the doctor, brokenly. "Will you go to her?"
Philip obeyed in silence. He passed through the curtains. It was so dark that he imagined he must be in a passage with a door at the other end.
"Can't I have a light?" he asked, partly turning toward the room he had just quitted.
In the neglected garden at the landward front of the Grange House the horse stood patiently on three legs, ruminating, no doubt, on the steepness of hills and the excellence of pastures.
Nearly an hour passed thus, in solemn quietude. Then a boy on a bicycle, red-faced with exertion, pedaled manfully up the hill, and through the gate.
"I hope he's here," thought he. "It's a long way to coom for nothin'."
Around his waist was a strap with a pouch bearing the king's monogram. He ran up to the door and gave a couple of thunderous knocks, the privileged rat-tat of a telegraph messenger.
There was a long delay. Then a heavy step approached, and a man opened the door, a big, heavy-faced man, with eyes that stared dreadfully, and a nose damaged in life's transit.
"Philip Anson, Esquire," said the boy, briskly, producing a buff-colored envelope.
The man seemed to swallow something.