'Vi has sent me this? what does it mean?'
I moved towards him, glancing towards the sick man, who still feigned slumber. I had hoped to give him a warning look; but the persistence with which he kept his eyes closed rendered my effort futile.
'It means what it says.' I spoke in a tolerably loud tone of voice, hoping that the sleeper would have sense enough to pick up such cues as I might give him. 'Your brother, my dear Reggie, is here--ill in bed.'
'Good gracious!' Reggie's face expressed a variety of emotions. He glanced from me to the bed; from the bed to me. He dropped his voice. 'Is he--is he really bad?'
'About as bad as he can be. The doctor is of opinion that he may expire at any moment.'
The tone in which I said this--for Mr. Babbacombe's instruction--seemed to strike Reggie as peculiar.
'Is he--asleep?'
'He seems to have just dropped off.' Reggie moved closer to the bed. I went with him. He regarded the sleeper with looks of curiosity.
'He looks frightfully queer.'
'He can hardly look queerer, and live.'