"Who's that?" asked Trevelyan, sharply.
"Your substitute."
Trevelyan picked at the sheet.
"Who did the old man send—Pearson?"
"Pearson! Not on your life! Stewart, of course."
Trevelyan stopped picking at the sheet. He rose with an effort and sat up in bed, supporting himself on his elbows and leaning forward.
"He has gone?"
The assistant standing at the foot of the bed nodded. Trevelyan sat rigid.
"And I was never told! And he's gone without coming to me!" he said, hoarsely.
"He spoke about it, but he said he wouldn't disturb you—" the assistant broke off.