“To-morrow. They begin with it, and I shall be glad when it is over. I don’t mind the writing nearly so much.”
“Hadn’t you better go to bed now,” suggested I, “and get a good-night?”
“So I will,” said he, “presently. But I must first write to Mrs Shield.”
I happened to be looking towards Mr Smith the elder as Jack said this. He gave a quick involuntary start, which, however, he instantly turned off into a fit of coughing as his eyes met mine.
Mr Smith had had a racking cough ever since I had known him, but I don’t think I ever remembered his having a spasm of this kind before.
“The fact is,” said Jack, whose back was turned, as he looked for some note-paper on the shelf, “I ought to have written last week, but I was so busy. And if I put it off any longer they will both think something is wrong.”
I only heard what he said mechanically, for my eyes were fixed on Mr Smith.
His face had turned deadly white, and the old frightened look about his eyes came out now with startling intensity. He certainly must be ill or in pain.
“Are you—” I began.
But with a sudden effort he rose to his feet, and with a glance at Jack motioned to me to be silent, and leave the question unasked.