“A dose of prussic acid first,” Lionel murmured, to himself.

“Prussic acid!—­Bosh!” said Maurice.  “What is the use of talking rubbish!  Well, I’m not going to let you talk at all.  I’m going to read you the news out of the evening papers until you go to sleep.”

When Dr. Ballardyce called next morning, he found that the fever had gained apace; all the symptoms were aggravated—­the temperature, in especial, had seriously increased.  The sick man lay drowsily indifferent, now and again moaning slightly; but sometimes he would waken up, and then there was a curiously anxious and restless look in his eyes.  The nurse said she was afraid he had not been asleep at all, though occasionally he had appeared to be asleep.  When the doctor left again, she was sent to bed, and Maurice Mangan took her place in the sitting-room.

That was an extraordinary Sunday, long to be remembered.  Anything more hopelessly dismal than the outlook from those Piccadilly windows it was impossible to imagine.  The gale of Friday had blown itself out in rain; and that had been followed by stagnant weather and a continuous drizzle; so that the trees in the Green Park opposite looked like black phantoms in the vague gray mist; while everything seemed wet and clammy and cold.  Maurice paced up and down the room, his feet shod in noiseless slippers; or he gazed out on that melancholy spectacle until he thought of suicide; or again he would go into the adjoining apartment, to see how his friend was getting on or whether he wanted anything.  But as the day wore on, matters became a little brisker; for there were numerous callers, and some of them waited to have a special message sent down to them; while others, knowing Mangan, and learning that he was in charge of the invalid, came up to have a word with himself.  Baskets of flowers began to arrive, too; and these, of course, must have come from private conservatories.  No one was allowed to enter the sick-room; but Maurice carried thither the news of all this kindly remembrance and sympathy, as something that might be grateful to his patient.

“You’ve got a tremendous number of friends, Linn, and no mistake,” he said.  “Many a great statesman or poet might envy you.”

“I suppose it is in the papers?” Lionel asked, without raising his head.

“In one or two of the late editions last evening, and in most of to-day’s papers; but to-morrow it will be all over the country.  I have had several London correspondents here this afternoon.”

“All over the country?” Lionel repeated, absently, and then he lay still for a second or two.  “No use—­no use!” he moaned, in so low a voice that Mangan could hardly hear.  And then again he looked up wearily.

“Come here, Maurice.  I want to—­to ask you something.  If—­if I were to die—­do you think—­they would put it in any of the papers abroad?”

“Nonsense—­what are you talking about?” Maurice exclaimed, in a simulated anger.  “Talking of dying—­because you’ve got a feverish cold; that’s not like you, Linn!  You’re not going to frighten your people when they come up from Winstead, by talking like that?”