Dr. Leach was giving directions in a low tone to Miss Rose, and Val, at his desire, lifted the slight form of the sufferer in his strong arms, carried her into the inner room, and laid her on the bed.
"I will call in again before night," said the doctor. "Remember my directions, Miss Rose. Come, Blake; you're going, I suppose?"
"Yes; in a moment. I want to see Wyndham."
Paul Wyndham was walking up and down the hall as they came out, his pale face expressive of but one thing—intensest anxiety. Dr. Leach, with a stiff bow, passed on and went out, but Val halted.
"Well?" Mr. Wyndham asked, eagerly.
"No hope," said Val; "no earthly power can save her. It's typhoid—the most malignant kind. She will die, thank God!"
Paul Wyndham leaned against the wall and covered his face, with a bitter groan.
"As to you," pursued Val, sternly, "you must leave this house at once, and enter it no more. Do not forget that we are acting criminally in screening you from the law, and that we can enforce our commands. Go at once, and do not come here again until all is over!"
He left the house as he spoke, and joined the doctor, who had gained the highroad. Some people passing stared to see them coming from Rosebush Cottage, and surmised Mr. Wyndham's mad mother must be worse than ever.
"How long can she last, doctor?" Val asked, before they parted.