“What?” said Jack, turning round to me.
“Are you—going to write a long letter?” I asked.
“I can’t say till I begin,” said Jack, laughing, and sitting down to write.
“I’ll say good-night,” said Mr Smith, in a hoarse but otherwise composed voice.
“Good-night,” said Jack. “I wish you’d get rid of your cold. All that night work must be bad for you.”
Mr Smith shook hands with me in silence and quitted the room. I heard his footsteps go strangely down the stairs, and his door shut behind him in the room below.
I didn’t feel comfortable. I was afraid he was ill—more ill than he wished either of us to suspect. It was the only way in which I could account for the spasm which preluded that last fit of coughing.
If it was so, he would be naturally anxious to conceal the fact from Jack on the eve of his examination, and that would account for his abrupt interruption of my question.
However, I had no examination to-morrow, and I was determined if possible to know the truth about our friend that very evening.
I sat by while Jack wrote his letter, thinking it interminable, and wondering what he could have to say to fill two sheets. When it was done I insisted on taking it to the post.