“How is your master, Brown?” Mr Gregory eagerly put in.
“I think he’s better, sir, thank you; but he’s had a dreadful time of it. I ’ope he’s gettin’ some sleep now, but—”
“What has been the matter—I couldn’t make out from your letter? Was it an accident of any kind?”
“Well, sir, I ’ardly know whether I’d better speak about it. Master was very partickler he should be the one to tell you. But there’s no bones broke—that’s one thing I’m sure we ought to be thankful—”
“What does the doctor say?” asked Mr Gregory.
They were by this time outside Mr Somerton’s bedroom door, and speaking in low tones. Mr Gregory, who happened to be in front, was feeling for the handle, and chanced to run his fingers over the panels. Before Brown could answer, there was a terrible cry from within the room.
“In God’s name, who is that?” were the first words they heard. “Brown, is it?”
“Yes, sir—me, sir, and Mr Gregory,” Brown hastened to answer, and there was an audible groan of relief in reply.
They entered the room, which was darkened against the afternoon sun, and Mr Gregory saw, with a shock of pity, how drawn, how damp with drops of fear, was the usually calm face of his friend, who, sitting up in the curtained bed, stretched out a shaking hand to welcome him.
“Better for seeing you, my dear Gregory,” was the reply to the Rector’s first question, and it was palpably true.