“Good heavens! it's Frank Leroux!”
“That's the gentleman's name, sir,” said the driver.
“How do you know?”
“He telegraphed from London for a bed to-night, saying that he was to be met by the last train, which I just did, sir.”
“But he's my oldest friend,” exclaimed Sylvester. “Leave him to me and see if the trap is all right. Bring the cushions for his head.”
He pursued his investigations. Leroux was alive. A trickle of blood damped his hair. After a while Sylvester drew an anxious breath.
It was a severe concussion; how grave he could not for the moment estimate. To drive him in the narrow two-wheeled cart was out of the question. He hailed the driver, who had righted the vehicle.
“Get a ambulance as quick as you can from the Infirm. That's nearest.”
The man touched his hat, and mounting drove off at a forced speed. Sylvester remained by Leroux, and having done all that was momentarily possible, was at last able to reflect upon the entire unexpectedness of his presence. They were old friends, had been at school and at Guy's together. Leroux, who was somewhat of a waif in the world, had spent many holidays here in Ayresford, at Woodlands. And even after he had thrown over medicine for painting, they had maintained the old relations. Sylvester had reckoned upon him being best man at his wedding; and when for some whimsical reason, which Sylvester could never discover but attributed to the artistic temperament, he declined and went off to Norway, the bridegroom elect knew no one intimately enough to appoint in his stead save Roderick Usher, against whom he had a constitutional antipathy. Although he had seen little of him during his married life, owing to his confinement in the country, and had heard little of him of late years, save that he was abroad, Sylvester still entertained for him the warmest affection. How, therefore, was he to explain this sudden unannounced appearance in Ayresford? It was preposterous that Frank Leroux should put up at the George Hotel; as preposterous as if he himself, in earlier days, had driven there instead of to Woodlands. The act was a sort of treason against friendship, and Sylvester felt absurdly hurt. He wished that Leroux would straightway recover consciousness and health so that he could rate him soundly for his unfriendliness. But there the man, with all the mystery of motive locked in the dull brain, lay helpless and inert, amid the builder's refuse from the fantastic shells of houses hard by. It was an ironical way for friends to meet after an absence and a silence of years.
Some stragglers from the station came up, passengers by the train, one or two porters, and the postman with the bag of local mails, and offered assistance. Sylvester declined, explaining briefly. Not daring to proffer suggestions as to the patient's treatment, they cursed in honest terms the offending pail and the worthless hands that had moved it, and loitered around. Dramatic incidents of a public kind are rare in Ayresford, and each man determined to make the most of this one, conscious, perhaps, of a lurking regret that he had not seen the accident.