“Yes; but I wouldn’t make him talk very much, if I were you.”
“We shall be very careful. I think, you know, it will cheer him up to see us, but you might ask him if he would rather we came another time. My name is Sartwell.”
Word was brought back that Marsten would be glad to see them. They found him in an alcove, curtained off, like other alcoves, from the rest of the ward. His face was not disfigured, but was very pale. He cast one rapid glance at the girl, shrinking back behind her father, then kept his gaze fixed on his old employer.
“Well, my boy,” said Sartwell, cheerily, “I’m sorry to see you on your back, but I’m glad to learn from the doctor that you will be all right in a few days.”
“Have the men——have they——gone back?” Marsten asked, in a faint whisper.
“Don’t bother about the men. I’m looking after them. Yes, they’ve come back.”
Marsten tried feebly to lift his head, but it sank back again.
“The letter,” he whispered, “what is left of it——is under the pillow, I think.”
Sartwell put his hand under the pillow and pulled forth the tattered document.
“You intend me to have this?”