"Only my rotten head—-it aches like the very devil."
Jimmy stood for a moment with his hand pressed hard over his eyes, then he took a step forward, and stopped again.
"I can't—I—confound it all——"
Sangster caught his arm.
"Don't be an ass; go to bed." He raised his voice; he called to Costin; between them they put Jimmy to bed and tucked him up. He kept protesting that there was nothing the matter with him, but he seemed grateful for the darkness of the room, and the big pillows beneath his aching head.
Sangster went back to the sitting-room with Costin.
"I don't think we need send for a doctor," he said. "It's only a chill, I think. See how he is in the morning. What's he been up to, Costin?"
Costin pursed his lips and raised his brows.
"He's been out most nights, sir," he answered stoically. "Only comes home with the milk, as you might say. Hasn't slept at all, and doesn't eat. It's my opinion, sir, that he's grieving like——" He looked towards the mantelshelf and the place which they could both remember had once held Cynthia Farrow's portrait.
Sangster shook his head.