"I'll go and see who it is," Mangan said, quietly. "Meanwhile you must lie perfectly quiet and still, Linn, and be sure that everything will come right."
In the next room, at the open door, he found the reporter of a daily newspaper which was in the habit of devoting a column every Monday morning to music and musicians. He was bidden to enter. He said he wished to have the last authentic news of the condition of the popular young baritone, for of course there would be some talk, especially in "the profession," about Mr. Moore's non-appearance on the preceding night.
"Well," said Maurice, in an undertone, "don't publish anything alarming, you know, for he has friends and relatives who are naturally anxious. The fever has increased somewhat; that is the usual thing; a nervous fever must run its course. And to-night he has been slightly delirious—"
"Oh, delirious?" said the reporter, with a quick look.
"Slightly—slightly—just wandering a little in his feverishness. I wouldn't make much of it. The public don't care for medical details. When the crisis of the fever comes, there will be something more definite to mention."
"If all goes well, when do you expect he will be able to return to the New Theatre?"
"That," said Maurice, remembering Miss Burgoyne's hint, "it is quite impossible to say."
"Thanks," said the reporter. "Good-night." And therewith Mangan returned to the sick-room.
He found that Lionel had forgotten all about having been startled into silence by the tapping at the outer door. His heated brain was busy with other bewildering possibilities now.
"Maurice—Maurice!" he said, eagerly. "It is near the time—quick, quick!—get me the box—behind the music—on the piano—"