"None whatever," said the detective, "so far as I know. But I understand that important testamentary dispositions will affect the young man—that is, if he gets better and the General does not turn up."
Cleg did get better, but not suddenly or indeed speedily.
One morning, when the doctor came from Netherby, Cleg of his own accord twitched an eyelid up and glanced at him.
"Doctor Sidey!" he said feebly, "have I been ill?"
Without answering, the doctor took his hand and bent over him.
His breathing was weak and irregular, but still perceptibly stronger.
"He'll do!" said Doctor Sidey of Netherby to Mirren Douglas, "but, mind you, he is to be asked no questions till I can ask them myself."
So for nearly a week more Cleg lay in the dusky room, with the bees humming drowsily outside the wall on sunny days, and the sounds of the little farmyard of Sandyknowes coming to him softened by distance. Vara looked in many times a day, as she passed the window to bring home the cows, or going with a can to the well; and always at sight of her Cleg smiled happily.
Or Mirren came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron, and Cleg smiled again. Then Vara brought him his low diet of milk and cornflour. But she did not speak to him. He looked at her in a manner so pathetic in its weakness that Mirren Douglas had often, perforce, to go into a corner and dry her eyes with her apron.
"He used to be so strong and cheery!" she said, as if explaining the matter to the world in general.