The policeman had not come upon the business, at all, but about some poaching matter. Mr. Edwin Barley came out of his wife's room as we were creeping by it. Charlotte Delves asked if Mrs. Edwin was awake?
"Awake? Yes! and in a fine excitable state," he answered, irritably. "She does not sleep three minutes together. It is giving herself no chance of recovery. She has got it in her head now that she's going to die, and is sending for Martin."
He strode down to the waiting policeman. Charlotte Delves went into Mrs. Edwin Barley's room, and took me. Selina's cheeks were still hectic with fever; her blue eyes bright and wild.
"If you would but try to calm yourself, Mrs. Edwin Barley!"
"I am as calm as I can expect to be," was her answer, given with some petulance. "My husband need not talk; he's worse than I am. He says now the doctors are treating me wrongly, and that he shall call in a fresh one. I suppose I shall die between them."
"I wish I knew what would soothe you," spoke Charlotte Delves, in a kind, pleasant voice.
"I'm very thirsty; I've taken all the lemonade; you can fetch me up some more. Anne, do you stay here."
Charlotte Delves took down the lemonade waiter, and Selina drew me to her. "The message, Anne!—the message! Did you see Mr. Gregg?"
I gave her the message as I had received it. It was well, she said, and turned away from me in her restlessness. Mr. Martin came in the afternoon: and from that time he seemed to be a great deal with Selina. A day or two passed on, bringing no change: she continued very ill, and George Heneage was not found.
I had another walk to Hallam on the Friday. Philip King's funeral was to be on the Saturday, and the walk appeared to have some connexion with that event. Selina sent no note this time, but a mysterious message.