Jeffreys’ heart leapt. “What was his name?” he asked, excitedly.
“Forrester; a dear young fellow he was. His mother, who died out in India, was Mrs Wilcox’s only daughter. Yes, poor Gerard Forrester was brought home from school about six months ago terribly crippled by an accident. It was said one of his school-fellows had—”
“But where is he now? tell me, for mercy’s sake!” exclaimed Jeffreys.
“I cannot tell you that,” replied the minister. “His grandmother was ordered to Torquay almost as soon as he arrived home. He remained here about a month in charge of his old nurse; and then—”
“He’s not dead!” almost shouted Jeffreys.
“Then,” continued the minister, “when the news came of his grandmother’s death, they left Grangerham. From all I can hear, Mrs Wilcox died very poor. I believe the nurse intended to try to get him taken into a hospital somewhere; but where or how I never knew. I was away in London when they disappeared, and have never heard of them since.”
“Isn’t his father alive?”
“Yes. I wrote to him by Mrs Wilcox’s request. He is an officer in India in the Hussars. I have had no reply, and cannot be sure that the letter has reached him, as I see that his regiment has been dispatched to Afghanistan.”
“Did you never hear from the nurse?” asked Jeffreys.
“Never.”