Roger lay in bed, in a small back-room on the first-floor; a mild, fair, pleasant-looking young man with a white bandage round his head. Mr. Pitt explained that the arm was not absolutely broken, but so much contused and inflamed as to be a worse hurt. This would not have kept him in bed, however, but the head had also been damaged, and fever set in.
“So this is where he has lain, hiding, while I have been ransacking London for him!” remarked Mr. Brandon, who was greatly put out by the whole affair; and perhaps the word “hiding” might have more truth in it than even he suspected.
“When young Scott called last night—a fellow-student of your nephew’s who comes to see him and bring him changes of clothes from his lodgings—he said you were making inquiries at the hospital and had left your address,” explained Pitt. “So I thought I ought to write to you, sir.”
“And I am much obliged to you for doing it, and for your care of him also,” said Mr. Brandon.
And presently, when Pitt was leaving, he followed him downstairs to Mrs. Mapping’s parlour, to ask whether Roger was in danger.
“I do not apprehend any, now that the fever is subsiding,” answered Pitt. “I can say almost surely that none will arise if we can only keep him quiet. That has been the difficulty throughout—his restlessness. It is just as though he had something on his mind.”
“What should he have on his mind?” retorted Mr. Brandon, in contention. “Except his sins. And I expect they don’t trouble him much.”
Pitt laughed a little. “Well, sir, he is not in any danger at present. But if the fever were to come back again—and increase—why, I can’t foresee what the result might be.”
“Then I shall send for Lady Bevere.”
Pitt opened his eyes. “Lady Bevere!” he repeated. “Who is she?”