But he had scarcely settled himself down comfortably to his work after James Horner’s welcome departure when the thought of Frithiof came to trouble him. After all, was it likely that a mere trifle would hinder a man of the Norwegian’s nature from going to business? Was it not much more probable that he was too ill even to write an excuse? And if so, how helpless and desolate he would be! Like most people, Roy was selfish. Had he lived alone he would have become more selfish every day; but it was impossible to live in the atmosphere of Rowan Tree House without, at any rate, trying to consider other people. With an effort he tore himself away from his beloved specimens, and set off briskly for Vauxhall, where, after some difficulty, he found the little side street in which, among dozens of others precisely like it, was the house of the three Miss Turnours. A little withered-up lady opened the door to him, and replied nervously to his question. “Mr. Falck is ill,” she said. “He seems very feverish; but he was like it once before, when he first came to England, and it passed off in a day or two.” “Can I see him?” said Roy. “Well, he doesn’t like being disturbed at all,” said Miss Charlotte. “He’ll hardly let me inside the room. But if you would just see him, I should really be glad. You will judge better if he should see the doctor or not.” “Thank you, I’ll go up then. Don’t let me trouble you.” “It is noise he seems to mind so much,” said Miss Charlotte. “So if you will find your way up alone, perhaps it would be best. It is the first door you come to at the top of the last flight of stairs.” Roy went up quietly, opened the door as noiselessly as he could, and went in. The window faced the sunset, so that the room was still fairly light, and the utter discomfort of everything was fully apparent. “I wish you wouldn’t come in again,” said an irritable voice from the bed. “The lightest footstep is torture.” “I just looked in to ask how you were,” said Roy, much shocked to see how ill his friend seemed. “Oh, it’s you!” said Frithiof, turning his flushed face in the direction of the speaker. “Thank God, you’ve come! That woman will be the death of me. She does nothing but ask questions.” “I’ve only just got back from Devonshire, but they said you hadn’t turned up to-day, and I thought I would come and see after you.” Frithiof dragged himself up and drank feverishly from the ewer which stood on a chair beside him. “I tried to come this morning,” he said, “but I was too giddy to stand, and had to give it up. My head’s gone wrong somehow.” “Poor fellow! you should have given up before,” said Roy. “You seem in terrible pain.” “Yes, yes; it’s like a band of hot iron,” moaned poor Frithiof. Then suddenly starting up in wild excitement, “There’s Blanche! there’s Blanche! Let me go to her! Let me go! I will see her once more—only this once!”