Samuel returned hysterical from Stafford.  His account of the scene, which he gave in a very loud voice, was a most absurd and yet pathetic recital, obviously distorted by memory.  When he came to the point of the entrance of Dick Povey, who was still at the hospital, and who had been specially driven to Stafford and carried into the prison, he wept without restraint.  His hysteria was painful in a very high degree.

He went to bed—­of his own accord, for his cough had improved again.  And on the following day, the day of the execution, he remained in bed till the afternoon.  In the evening the Rector sent for him to the Rectory to discuss the proposed demonstration.  On the next day, Saturday, he said he should not get up.  Icy showers were sweeping the town, and his cough was worse after the evening visit to the Rector.  Constance had no apprehensions about him.  The most dangerous part of the winter was over, and there was nothing now to force him into indiscretions.  She said to herself calmly that he should stay in bed as long as he liked, that he could not have too much repose after the cruel fatigues, physical and spiritual, which he had suffered.  His cough was short, but not as troublesome as in the past; his face flushed, dusky, and settled in gloom; and he was slightly feverish, with quick pulse and quick breathing—­the symptoms of a renewed cold.  He passed a wakeful night, broken by brief dreams in which he talked.  At dawn he had some hot food, asked what day it was, frowned, and seemed to doze off at once.  At eleven o’clock he had refused food.  And he had intermittently dozed during the progress of the demonstration and its orgiastic sequel.

Constance had food ready for his waking, and she approached the bed and leaned over him.  The fever had increased somewhat, the breathing was more rapid, and his lips were covered with tiny purple pimples.  He feebly shook his head, with a disgusted air, at her mention of food.  It was this obstinate refusal of food which first alarmed her.  A little uncomfortable suspicion shot up in her:  Surely there’s nothing the matter with him?

Something—­impossible to say what—­caused her to bend still lower, and put her ear to his chest.  She heard within that mysterious box a rapid succession of thin, dry, crackling sounds:  sounds such as she would have produced by rubbing her hair between her fingers close to her ear.  The crepitation ceased, then recommenced, and she perceived that it coincided with the intake of his breath.  He coughed; the sounds were intensified; a spasm of pain ran over his face; and he put his damp hand to his side.

“Pain in my side!” he whispered with difficulty.

Constance stepped into the drawing-room, where Cyril was sketching by the fire.

“Cyril,” she said, “go across and ask Dr. Harrop to come round at once.  And if he isn’t in, then his new partner.”

“Is it for father?”