“Yes, we’ve checked the fever for the present, but you have had a severe turn, and are weak.”
“Vat ails me?” asked Carlos.
“I can scarcely tell yet. The fever has taken an intermittent form, and will probably come on again to-night. If it isn’t attended to, it may run into typhoid.”
“I cannot afford to be sick,” muttered Carlos.
“No? Well, all of us feel that way. By the way!” exclaimed the doctor, starting as if something had suddenly caught his attention, “what has become of that scar?”
“Vat scar?”
“The scar on your forehead. It was very plain last night, but can scarcely be seen now.”
Here was another disaster. Carlos had neglected, in his sickness, to put on the bandage which he was accustomed to wear nightly for the purpose of leaving the imprint of a scar. It was part of the routine imposed upon him by Mr. Stark, and was a most important aid in concealing his identity.
A sense of what was likely to follow rushed upon him.
“It comes and goes,” he replied.