“I don’t know. Gervase never cared twopence about the property. I don’t think he’d come out for that.”
“They wouldn’t let him out,” said Rose.
“Is he coming here now?” asked Mary.
“I wired to him when I wired to you and Jenny. But I don’t know whether he’ll come or not, and anyhow he can’t be here for some time.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly twelve.”
The three women shivered. The fire had gone out.
§ 22
The night wore on, and Sir John was still alive. Nobody thought of going to bed, but after a time Doris, Mary and Rose went upstairs to the greater warmth of their father’s dressing-room. Here through the open door they could see the firelight leaping on the bedroom ceiling, and hear the occasional hushed voices of the nurse and Dr. Mount. Lady Alard sat by the fire, mute and exhausted. For the first time that they could remember she gave her family the impression of being really ill. Speller made tea, cocoa and soup on the gas-ring in the dressing-room. Hot drinks were at once a distraction and a stimulant. The night seemed incredibly long—nobody spoke above whispers, though every now and then Rose would say—“There’s no good whispering—he wouldn’t hear us even if we shouted.”
“I do hope he really is unconscious,” said Doris.