“Inglis.”
The jerky, straggling sentences betrayed the theorist’s loss of nerve and self-control. It was evident that the gentleman with the gilded degrees was in no enviable panic.
“Well, dear?”
She bent over him, and touched his forehead.
“I shall have to go,” he said, sombrely.
“Go, but you are not fit!”
He sat up in bed, looked at her, and gave a wry and miserable smile.
“If I had not been such an infernal fool! The last time, Kate, I swear!”
She caught the letter and read it through.
“Inglis is a miserable thing to lean on.”