I followed her through the door at the back of the hall, and then down a big, winding stone staircase that led to the basement. Milford's room was in front, just under the dining-room.
When I entered I found him sitting propped up in bed. He was breathing with evident difficulty, and his face, which was a nasty grey colour, was covered with small beads of perspiration.
"Hullo, Milford," I said, "what have you been doing to yourself?"
He gave me a wan smile. "I don't know, sir," he answered feebly. "I felt rather queer last night, sir, and when I woke up this morning I was like this."
I felt his pulse, which was about as faint and irregular as a pulse could very well be.
"Dr. Ritchie's coming round to see you in a minute," I said, with assumed cheerfulness. "He'll tell us what's the matter. I don't suppose it's anything very serious. Do you think you ate something that upset you yesterday?"
He shook his head. "No, sir. I had my dinner here, and after that all I took was my usual glass of beer at the Granville, round the corner. I don't think it can be anything—" A sudden spasm of pain contracted his face, cutting short his words.
"Well, you must lie quite still," I said soothingly, "and not worry about anything. We can rub along all right; if necessary, I'll get someone else in to help. All you've got to think about is getting fit again."
He looked up, a flash of gratitude lighting his suffering face.
"Thank you, sir," he said faintly.