‘Only one word before I call the man. Let me tell you, sir, that I am grateful,’ said John Treverton, kneeling down beside the bed, and taking the old man’s wasted hand in his.
‘Prove it when I am gone, John, by trying to carry out my wishes. And now good-night. You had better go to bed.’
‘Will you allow me to sit with you for the rest of the night, sir? I have not the least inclination to sleep.’
‘No, no, there would be no use in your sitting up. If I am well enough to see you again in the morning I will do so. Till then, good-bye.’
The old man’s tone was decisive. John Treverton went out of the room by a door that opened on the gallery. Here he found Jasper Treverton’s valet, a grave-looking, grey-haired man, dozing upon a window seat. He told this man that he was wanted in the sick room, and then went to the study.
Miss Malcolm was still there, sitting in a thoughtful attitude, looking at the fire.
‘What do you think of him?’ she asked, looking up suddenly, as John Treverton entered the room.
‘He does not seem to me so ill as I expected to see him from your account. He has spoken to me with perfect clearness.’
‘I am very glad of that. He seemed a good deal better after that long sleep. I will ring for Trimmer to show you your room, Mr. Treverton.’
‘Are you not going to bed yourself, Miss Malcolm? It is nearly three o’clock.’