“Ay. A'll eat.” Like a man under a mesmeric spell, he went through the motions of eating. His mind was far away, his eyes eager, alert, forever upon her face.
When they had finished their meal, Adrien said:
“Now, Mr. McNish, is there anything I can do for you?”
“A would like to send word to ma mither,” he said. “She disna ken onything—aboot—aboot Annette—aboot Annette an' me,” a faint touch of red coming slowly up in his grey face.
“I shall get word to her. I know the very man. I shall phone the Reverend Murdo Matheson.”
“Ay,” said McNish, “he is the man.”
“Now, then,” said Adrien, placing him in an easy chair, “you must rest there. Remember, I am keeping watch.”
With the promise that he would do his best to rest, she left him sitting bolt upright in his chair.
Toward morning, Maitland appeared, weary and haggard. Adrien greeted him with tender solicitude; it was almost maternal in its tone.
“Oh, Adrien,” said Maitland, with a great sight of relief, “you don't know how good it is to see you here. It bucks one tremendously to feel that you are on this job.”