On his low narrow camp bed lay Branscombe, flushed, with eyes closed, tossing and moaning, and now and then talking to himself, Railsford started as his eyes fell on him.
“He’s ill!” he whispered to Mrs Phillips.
“That’s what I thought,” observed the sagacious dame.
Railsford knew little enough about medicine, and had never been ill himself in his life. But as he lifted the hot hand which lay on the coverlet, and marked the dry parched lips, and listened to the laboured breathing, he knew that he was in the presence of a grave illness of some kind.
“Go and fetch Dr Clarke at once, Mrs Phillips,” said he, “and tell the cabman on your way down not to wait.”
Branscombe opened his eyes and clutched greedily at the tumbler Railsford offered. But his throat was too sore to allow him to drain it, and he gave it back with a moan. Then he dozed off fitfully, and recommenced his tossing.
“Where are they all?” he asked, again opening his eyes.
He scarcely seemed to take in who Railsford was.
“They went by the ten o’clock train,” said Railsford.
“Why didn’t they call me? Where’s Clipstone?”