Two, three, four, and even five o’clock still found Sir Felix Carbury in bed on that fatal Thursday.  More than once or twice his mother crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast asleep and made no reply to her gentle words.  But his condition was one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber.  From head to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere.  To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solace within his reach.  Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to the page he was awake.  The boy brought...