“I’m afraid the old gentleman is going to be taken ill, sir,” said the man.
Bashwood the younger frowned angrily, and walked back to the cab. As he opened the door and looked in, his father leaned forward and confronted him, with lips that moved speechlessly, and with a white stillness over all the rest of his face.
“She’s done us,” said the spy. “They were married here this morning.”
The old man’s body swayed for a moment from one side to the other. The instant after, his eyes closed and his head fell forward toward the front seat of the cab. “Drive to the hospital!” cried his son. “He’s in a fit. This is what comes of putting myself out of my way to please my father,” he muttered, sullenly raising Mr. Bashwood’s head, and loosening his cravat. “A nice morning’s work. Upon my soul, a nice morning’s work!”
The hospital was near, and the house surgeon was at his post.
“Will he come out of it?” asked Bashwood the younger, roughly.
“Who are you?” asked the surgeon, sharply, on his side.
“I am his son.”
“I shouldn’t have thought it,” rejoined the surgeon, taking the restoratives that were handed to him by the nurse, and turning from the son to the father with an air of relief which he was at no pains to conceal. “Yes,” he added, after a minute or two; “your father will come out of it this time.”
“When can he be moved away from here?”