"No," he interrupted. "Please go and bring her—as quickly as you can."
"If you really wish it," she stammered, "I will go." She did not know Francis in this strange mood. "But may I not come and see you safely up-stairs first?"
"I wish it. I shall be all right. Please go." He spoke kindly but quite decidedly.
Philippa made one more effort.
"Let me at least stay until Keen comes to you." But he replied with a gesture which showed her further argument was useless, and she obeyed him without another word.
Ford had meanwhile gone in search of Keen and the carrying-chair, so that when Francis entered he was quite alone. He did not pause, but walked straight across the hall and up the stairs.
When Keen, who had been reading the local paper over a quiet pipe in the kitchen yard, arrived in all haste in answer to the summons, he failed at first to find his master, but then he saw him and hurried to his side.
Francis was standing at the head of the staircase as though he had stayed to rest a moment, and his eyes were fixed on a picture on the wall. He paid no heed to his servant's murmur of regret that he should not have been at hand when needed—he did not seem to hear. Then his lips moved. "Poor Rip!" he said, almost under his breath. "I know—now—what you must have felt—and I pity you——"
Keen, quite uncomprehending, followed the direction of his glance, and remarked with polite jocularity—
"Looks as if he wanted a new suit of clothes rather badly, sir; doesn't he, sir?"