Horace’s voice startled them all as he cried,—
“Reg! Reg! come quick, quick!”
There was no mistaking either the tones or the white face of the boy who uttered them.
Reginald was on his feet in an instant, rushing in the direction of the house, towards which his brother had already started.
“What is it, Horace?” he said as he overtook him.
“Something about father—a telegram,” gasped the other.
Not another word was spoken as they ran on and reached the hall door.
The hall door stood open. Just outside on the hot stone steps lay the towels where Horace had dropped them five minutes ago. Carlo, the dog, lay across the mat, and lazily lifted his head as his master approached. Within stood Mrs Cruden, pale and trembling, with a telegram in her hand, and in the back-ground hovered three or four servants, with mingled curiosity and anxiety on their faces.
Despite the heat, Reginald shivered as he stood a moment at the door, and then sprang towards the telegram, which his mother gave into his hand. It was from Mr Cruden’s coachman, dated from Saint Nathaniel’s Hospital.
“Master was took ill driving from City—brought here, where he is very bad indeed. Doctor says no hope.”