Jumping out, I thrust my feet into a pair of slippers that lay on the white sheepskin rug, and, crossing the room, unlocked the door. I expected to find Milford, but in place of that obliging retainer I was confronted by a pleasant-looking girl, neatly dressed in a print costume and cap. She was carrying a tray with a pot of tea and some letters on it.
"Oh, come in," I said, seeing that she was hesitating. Then, kicking off my slippers, I clambered back into bed.
She came across and laid the tray down on the table beside me.
"I have brought you up your tea, sir," she said. "Mr. Milford is not at all well this morning."
"Oh!" I replied. "I'm sorry for that. What's the matter with him? He was all right last night."
She shook her head. "I don't know, sir; but he seems very poorly."
"Is he in pain?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. He seems to be suffering a great deal."
"Well, you'd better send for the doctor at once," I said, pouring myself out some tea.
This was distinctly awkward. I certainly didn't want to be deprived of the services of the one person Northcote had told me I could trust.