Of course, I'll keep my promise; but don't irritate me. I'm
all on edge over this thing now--a little more, and I'll be capable of
doing something--"
A tap at the door interrupted him, and he disappeared between two
curtains into the inner room, where an invalid chair, buried in wraps,
stood by the window. Near it was a little table covered with medicine
bottles, glasses, spoons--in a word, all the paraphernalia of prolonged
and serious illness.
Blake opened the door and took the card that was presented to him.
"The Prince of Markeld," he said, looking at it. "Ah, yes; you will
tell His Highness that there has been no change in the condition of Lord
Vernon, who thanks him for his kind inquiries."
He closed the door and turned back into the room.
"Now, what do you think that means?" he asked, of Collins. "That's the
second time today. He's getting importunate."
Collins stared out of the window gloomily.
"Perhaps he suspects already," he said. "I've been told he's a clever
fellow--in fact, he's proved it once or twice."
"Suppose he does suspect--what shall we do?"
"Convince him to the contrary. Where's Scaddam?"
"In his room, I suppose."
"Better send for him."
"May I come out?" inquired a voice from the inner room.
"Yes, come ahead," called Collins, and Vernon reappeared.
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