"They came down about a fortnight ago, all in a hurry--at least they never sent word to Farmer Jellicoe, who had the keys and the looking-after of the place, that they were coming, and so, of course, nothing had been got ready for them. Next day, however, half a dozen or more servants followed them from London, though why the servants couldn't have been sent on first and have got things shipshape for their master and mistress is what I for one don't profess to understand."
But Burgo understood.
Polly's information had proved to be correct; his uncle had been brought to the Keep, and at that moment he, Burgo, was less than a mile away from him. For a few moments, although he seemed to be puffing placidly at his cigar, he was too inwardly agitated to trust himself to speak.
It was the landlord who first broke the silence.
"They do say there's no finer air anywhere than our Cumberland air," he remarked; "so let us hope it'll do the poor gentleman good and help to set him on his legs again."
"Sir Everard was ill when he arrived at the Keep, was he?"
"Mortal bad, sir. At Oakbarrow station he had to be carried from the railway carriage to Jim Wilson's fly--the same that brought you, sir--by Jim and his valet, and from the fly into the house when they reached the Keep."
"That was a fortnight ago. Do you know whether Sir Everard's health has improved in the meanwhile?"
The landlord shook his head. "They're very close up at the Keep--for one thing, perhaps, because the servants are all stuck-up Londoners, and very little news is allowed to leak out. It seems certain that the poor gentleman has never been outside the house since he was carried into it; but there's a roomy lawn between the house and the edge of the cliff, and a sea-wall with a sheltered walk behind it, and mayhap on fine days he might be found out there, if one really knew."
"Has he no medical man attending him?"