Then once more, as in a dream, someone meeting him and a voice speaking: “The lady? No, sir, she left here in the bad weather, two days ago, by the boat.”
Onslow heard no more, for a black cloud closed him in, and when he recovered consciousness he was looking in the pleasant face of the elderly little doctor who had attended his wife.
“That’s better, my dear sir,” he said. “You are suffering from exhaustion. That’s right—no, no, you must drink this. You are not used to the sea, I suppose. It does prostrate some people, and leave them weak.”
“Mrs.—Lady Onslow—my wife?” gasped the wretched man.
“She has left the island, my dear sir, and really you must—— Good Heavens! what are you going to do?”
“Return at once,” said Onslow, trying to rise.
“Impossible. You are not fit to travel.”
“Must travel.”
“But there is no boat till to-morrow morning between nine and ten, and even if there were, believe me, my dear sir, it would be madness. It is my duty to tell you that you seem to me to be developing symptoms that——”
The doctor said no more, for Frank Onslow had sunk on the couch insensible once more, and the next day’s boat had gone when, weak so that he had to support himself with a stick, he made his way slowly along the cliffs after dispatching a telegram to Jacynth at the hotel at Liverpool telling him of his state, of his failure, and imploring him to send news.