"I—I feel nearly well. How long have I been here?"
"About three weeks."
"I say—that's a nuisance! I'm very sorry to put you to inconvenience."
"Wasn't your fault. It was the doctor who brought you here." The tone of the words was round and masterful. "Are you comfortable? Have you all you want?"
"Everything. The nurses are A1. I say—has some one written to my uncle?"
"Undershaw wrote to a Mr. George Faversham last week. He was ill with rheumatic gout, couldn't come. Is that the uncle you mean?"
The young man nodded.
"He's the only relation I've got. The other one died. Hullo!"
He made a sudden movement. His hand slipped into his breast and found nothing. He raised himself in bed, with a frowning brow.
"I say!"—he looked urgently at Melrose. "Where are my gems?—and my ring?"