As he had expected, no one was there. What was worse, there was no sign either of fire or breakfast. To a man who has not tasted food for about twenty hours, such a discovery could not fail to be depressing, and Mr Armstrong meekly decided to summon Raffles to his assistance. As he passed down the passage, he could not forbear halting for a moment at the door of a certain room, behind which he knew the mortal remains of his dead employer lay. As he paused, not liking to enter, liking still less to pass on, the sound of footsteps within startled him. It was not difficult, after a moment’s reflection, to guess to whom they belonged, and the tutor softly tapped on the door.
The only answer was the abrupt halting of the footsteps. Mr Armstrong entered and found his pupil.
Roger was standing in the ulster he had worn last night. His eyes were black and heavy with weariness, his face was almost as white as the face of him who lay on the couch, and as he turned to the open door his teeth chattered with cold.
“I couldn’t leave him alone,” whispered he apologetically, as the tutor laid a gentle hand on his arm.
“Of course—of course,” replied Mr Armstrong. “I guessed it was you. Would you rather be left alone?”
“No,” said the lad wearily. “I thought by staying here I should get some help—some—I don’t know what, Armstrong. But instead, I’m half asleep. I’ve been yawning and shivering, and forgotten who was here—and—” Here his eyes filled with tears.
“Dear old fellow,” said the tutor, “you are fagged out. Come and get a little rest.”
Roger sighed, partly to feel himself beaten, partly at the prospect of rest.
“All right!” said he. “I’m ashamed you should see me so weak when I wanted to be strong. Yes, I’ll come—in one minute.”
He walked over to the couch and knelt beside it. His worn-out body had succumbed at last to the misery against which it had battled so long, and for a moment he yielded himself to his sorrow. The tutor waited a moment, and then walked quietly from the room.