“Do you think you could raise a few sandwiches?” he asked the man pleasantly. “I see drinks are here.”
The butler responded with alacrity.
“Cook did cut some, sir, on the chance.”
He vanished, only too thankful to feel that Sir Edward was at last in the hands of some one who seemed able to influence him. He had hardly eaten or slept, in the opinion of his household, since his wife had been taken ill.
Fayre strolled over to the little table near the window, on which stood a tantalus and a couple of syphons. He poured out a stiff drink, but withheld it until the butler returned with a tray of fruit and sandwiches.
Kean sat gazing into the fire. He did not show the slightest interest in Fayre’s movements and the fact that his old friend had coolly taken possession and was issuing orders to his servants seem to have escaped him.
Fayre moved the table with the tray to Kean’s elbow.
“Is Sybil conscious?” he asked quietly and with what seemed deliberate cruelty.
Her name was enough to rouse Kean from his abstraction.
“Her mind’s quite clear, but she’s so weak she can hardly speak,” he said. “The doctors won’t say anything definite yet.”