Next morning Ephraim was decidedly worse. His bright, feverish eyes, fixed intently on Doctor Hazeldine's face, did not fail to note the grave expression which crept over it like a shadow, while listening to his patient's labored breathing, and counting the quickened beats of his pulse. Then Ephraim drew his own inference, which was little more than a confirmation of the doubts--one could scarcely have called them fears--which had beset him almost from the beginning of his illness.
"I am going to die," he said to himself, "and Clement Hazeldine knows it. But, first of all, I've something to say to him."
"Yes, I had only a poor night," he said aloud, in reply to a question of Clement; "hour after hour I lay awake, tossing and turning from side to side. Just now I feel sleepy, and not up to much talking; but there's one thing I wish you would do for me, Mr. Clement."
Among the Bank staff Mr. Hazeldine's sons had always been spoken of as "Mr. Edward" and "Mr. Clement."
"I shall be glad to do anything for you that I can, Ephraim."
"I wish you would come and sit with me this afternoon when your busy time is over, and you have half-an-hour to spare. I shall, perhaps, feel a bit stronger by that time, and I have something particular that I am anxious to tell you--something very particular, which I dare not put off any longer for fear I may not be able to tell it at all."
"Since it is your wish, I will certainly come and see you this afternoon," answered Clement. "But you must not allow your spirits to get depressed. I sincerely trust that to-morrow morning will find you much better than you are to-day."
Ephraim smiled faintly.
"You and I know better than that, Mr. Clement," was all he said, as he shut his eyes with an air of weariness.
At four o'clock Clement called again, and was shown by Eliza Judd into her brother's room. Clem felt nothing more than a very mild curiosity as to the nature of the confession, or whatever it might prove to be, which Ephraim was about to impart to him. Sick men have often strange fancies, and attach a spurious importance to things which are of no real consequence, although at such times they seem to be.