“Bevere, old fellow, how are you? We’ve been so sorry to hear of your mishap!”
There was nothing alarming in the words and they were spoken gently; or in the visitor either, for he was good-looking; but in a moment Bevere was sitting bolt upright in bed, gazing out in fright as though he saw an apparition.
“What the deuce has brought you here, Lightfoot?” he cried, angrily.
“Came to see how you were getting on, friend,” was the light and soothing answer, as the stranger drew near the bed. “Head and arm damaged, I hear.”
“Who told you where to find me?”
“Scott. At least, he——”
“Scott’s a false knave then! He promised me faithfully not to tell a soul.” And Bevere’s inflamed face and passionate voice presented a contrast to his usual mild countenance and gentle tones.
“There’s no need to excite yourself,” said the tall young man, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking the patient’s hand. “Dick Scott let fall a word unawares—that Pitt was attending you. So I came up to Pitt’s just now and got the address out of his surgery-boy.”
“Who else heard the chance word?”
“No one else. And I’m sure you know that you may trust me. I wanted to ask if I could do anything for you. How frightened you look, old fellow!”