“Do you think she will mind that?” Mangan said, cheerfully.  “But I’m going to send her your good wishes, Linn—­now, when I write.  And look here, if she should come up to see you, or your father and mother—­for it is quite possible the doctors may insist on your giving your voice a rest for a considerable while—­well, if they should come up from Winstead, mind you say nothing about your monetary troubles.  They needn’t be mentioned to anybody, nor need they worry you; I dare say I shall be able to get something more done; it will be all right.  Only, if the Winstead people should come up, don’t you say anything to them about these monetary affairs, or connect me with them; for it might put me into an awkward position—­you understand?”

And the last words Lionel wrote on the block of paper before Mangan went out to execute his various commissions were these: 

“You are a good friend, Maurice.”

When the doctors arrived in the afternoon, Mangan had come back.  They found Lionel complaining of acute headache and a burning thirst; his skin hot and dry; pulse full and quick; also, he seemed drowsy and heavy, though his eyes retained their restless brightness.  There could be no doubt, as they privately informed Maurice, he was in the first stages of a violent fever; and the best thing that could be done was to get in a professional nurse at once.  Yes, Mr. Mangan might communicate with his friends; his father, being himself a doctor, would judge whether it were worth while coming up just then; but, of course, it would be inadvisable to have a lot of relations crowding the sick-room.  Obviously, the immediate cause of the fever was the chill caught on the previous night, but there might have been predisposing causes; and everything calculated to excite the mind unduly was to be kept away from him.  As for the throat, there were no dangerous symptoms as yet; the simple congestion would probably disappear, when the fever abated, with a return to health; but the people at the theatre might as well know that it would be a long time before Mr. Moore could return to his duties.  Dr. Ballardyce would see at once about having a professional nurse sent; meanwhile, quiet, rest, and the absence of mental disturbance were the great things.  And so the two augurs departed.

The moment that Mangan returned to Lionel’s room, the latter glanced at him quickly and furtively.

“Are they gone, Maurice?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“And the check—­for Lord Rockminster?”

“There it is, already drawn out,” was the answer, as the slip of lilac paper was unfolded; “but I can’t take it to him until the nurse comes—­certainly not.”

“She may be an hour, Maurice,” Lionel said, restlessly.  “I don’t want anybody to wait on me.  If you think it necessary, call up Mrs. Jenkins, and she can sit in the next room; the bell here is enough.  Oh, my head!—­my head!”—­and he turned away, wearily.