"It is—— Perhaps I had better not tell it you."
"I understand," he slowly said. "Tom Heriot, I suppose. Why does he not get away?"
"He is too ill for that at present: confined to his room and his bed. Of course, he does not run quite so great a risk as he did when he persisted in parading the streets, but danger is always imminent."
"He ought to end the danger by getting away. Very ill, is he?"
"So ill that I think danger will soon be all at an end in another way; it certainly will be unless he rallies."
"What is the matter with him?"
"I cannot help fearing that consumption has set in."
"Poor fellow! Oh, Charles, how that fine young man has spoilt his life! Consumption?—Wait a bit—let me think," broke off the Serjeant. "Why, yes, I remember now; it was consumption that Colonel Heriot's first wife died of—Tom's mother."
"Tom said so the last time I saw him."
"Ah. He knows it, then. Better not see him too often, Charles. You are running a risk yourself, as you must be aware."