"Ah, well—I have said more than enough of my last night's amusement," he confessed. "It's your turn now, my dear. Have you had a look at the poor fellow whom the doctor is going to cure?" he asked abruptly; eager to discover whether she had noticed the likeness between Oxbye and himself.
Her eyes rested on him attentively. "I have not yet seen the person you allude to," she answered. "Is Mr. Vimpany hopeful of his recovery?"
He took out his case, and busied himself in choosing a cigar. In the course of his adventurous life, he had gained some knowledge of the effect of his own impetuous temper on others, and of difficulties which he had experienced when circumstances rendered it necessary to keep his face in a state of discipline.
"Oh, there's no reason for anxiety!" he said, with an over-acted interest in examining his cigar. "Mr. Oxbye is in good hands."
"People do sometimes sink under an illness," she quietly remarked.
Without making any reply he took out his matchbox. His hand trembled a little; he failed at the first attempt to strike a light.
"And doctors sometimes make mistakes," Iris went on.
He was still silent. At the second attempt, he succeeded with the match, and lit his cigar.
"Suppose Mr. Vimpany made a mistake," she persisted. "In the case of this stranger, it might lead to deplorable results."
Lord Harry lost his temper, and with it his colour.