“Raffles,” said he, as the page entered, “come here, quick. The Squire is ill.”
“I said he was dicky,” gasped the boy. “I knowed it whenever—”
“Hold your tongue, sir, and help me lift him to the sofa.”
Between them they moved the stricken man to the couch, where he lay open-eyed, speechless, appealing.
“We must get Dr Brandram, Raffles.”
“That’ll puzzle you,” said the boy, “a night like this, and the two ’orses at Castleridge.”
“Is there any chance of your mistress returning to-night?”
“Not if Tom Robbins knows it. He’s mighty tender of his ’orses, and a night like this—”
“Go and fetch the housekeeper at once,” said the tutor.
Raffles vanished.