“No, not impossible; highly improbable, I grant you; but such improbable things occur every day. You must have more substantial ground than second-hand evidence and corroborating circumstances to go upon before you stir in the matter, and then you must do nothing without proper legal advice.”
Clide recognized the common-sense and justice of this, and determined to be advised. He started for Berlin, and on arriving there went straight from the railway to the British Embassy, where he obtained a letter from the ambassador to the Minister of Police, requesting that functionary to give the young Englishman every assistance and facility. The minister was going to bed; it was near twelve o’clock; the ambassador’s letter, however, secured the untimely visitor immediate admission, and a civil and attentive hearing. He took some notes down from Clide’s dictation, and promised that all the resources of the body which he controlled should be enlisted in the matter, and as soon as they had discovered where the party they were in pursuit of had alighted, he would communicate with Mr. de Winton.
The latter then went to the hotel, where Stanton had preceded him, and was waiting impatiently for his arrival. The moment he entered the room, Stanton was struck by his pale, haggard look; he had not noticed it on the journey; when the train stopped, they saw each other in the shade or in the dark, and after exchanging a hasty word passed each to his separate buffets and carriages. It was indeed no wonder his master should be worn out after the terrible emotions of the last few days, added to the continued travelling and scarcely any sleep or food, but it did not look like ordinary fatigue.
“You had better go to bed, sir; you’ll be used up if you take on like this; and that won’t mend much,” he said, when Clide, after lighting a cigar, flung himself into a chair and bade Stanton bring him the papers.
“I’ll go to bed presently; bring me the papers,” repeated Clide, and the man left the room.
When he returned he found his master standing up and holding on by the back of his chair as if to steady himself.
“I feel queerish, Stanton; get me some brandy and water; make haste,” he said, speaking faintly.
Instead of obeying him, Stanton forced him gently into the chair, and proceeded to undress him Clide resigning himself passively to it, as if he were in a stupor; he let himself be put to bed in the same way, like a child too sleepy to know what was being done to it.
“I don’t like the looks of him at all,” thought Stanton, as he stole softly out of the room; “if he’s not all right to-morrow, I send for the admiral.”
Clide was not all right in the morning; he was feverish and exhausted, and complained in a querulous way, quite unlike his usual self, of a burning, hammering pain in his head. Stanton sent for a medical man without consulting him. When he said he had done so, Clide gave no sign of displeasure; he did not seem quite to take it in.