“Den—I say—what’s wrong with you?”
A man came limping up, in appearance a respectable artisan. He took the child from Ivor’s arms.
“No words can thank you, sir, for your goodness to us,” he said, not noticing Roy. “God will reward you. I never can.”
“I shall be at Colonel Baron’s. Come and see me some day—tell me how you’re getting on.”
“I will, sir. Thank you kindly.”
Ivor remained in the same position, and a hand touched Roy. He turned, to find himself facing the young artist, Hugh Curtis.
“You back too! That’s good. And your wife?”
“Wife and baby coming. Didn’t you know I had a little one? Well, I have. Jolly little thing too. They’re in a cart with others—thanks to Captain Ivor”—in a lower tone. “Never mind about us; get him home”—with a glance towards Denham. “I’ve got to find rooms for ourselves, after I’ve been to the citadel. Must report myself there first, I’m told. And then I shall have to meet my wife.”
Roy moved two or three paces away with him.
“I say, tell me—what’s been the matter with him? He looks as if——”