“Be quiet!” said he, between his clenched teeth. “Be quiet, can’t you, and listen to me. The man you saw is a dangerous madman; and he is Gilbert Wryde’s son.” Marrable sank down on the bed, trembling as if with severe cold. “Gilbert Wryde’s son--a lunatic!” he repeated, in horror. “It is too awful! It can’t be true!” Now that he had shot his bolt, John Bradfield was calmer in manner, and able to assume an appearance almost of indifference to the ejaculations and comments of the other. “If you don’t believe it, you can easily see for yourself,” he said, shortly. “As soon as you can move about, you shall be shut up with him alone for an hour if you like.” But Marrable sat in a heap, with staring eyes, and with his teeth chattering, muttering to himself at intervals: “Gilbert Wryde’s son a lunatic! Gilbert Wryde’s son!” And then the man, who was soft-hearted, and who remembered how Gilbert Wryde had befriended him years ago, broke down, and sobbed, while Bradfield moved restlessly about the room, waiting for the doctor. When the medical man arrived, he pronounced the injury to be of a comparatively slight nature, and told the patient that he might, with care, be able to get about again in a fortnight or three weeks. “But,” he added, looking from one man to the other enquiringly, and perceiving that both were in a state of high excitement, “you will have to keep very quiet if you wish to be cured so soon.” John Bradfield went as far as the end of the corridor with the doctor, and then returned to the patient, whom he found resting on his elbow, with an inquiry on his lips. And John “shied,” so to speak, at the expression of Marrable’s light grey eyes. “Bradfield!” said he, in a husky whisper, “I want to ask you something. If the poor chap you’ve got shut up for a lunatic is Gilbert Wryde’s son, what has become of Gilbert Wryde’s money?” CHAPTER XXIV. A LUNATIC’S LETTER. John Bradfield was equal to the occasion. Turning so that he faced Marrable, he answered at once: “Gilbert Wryde’s money! Oh, he left it in the hands of trustees, of course.” There was a pause, and John turned away, as if feeling that he had satisfied his companion’s thirst for information. But presently Marrable spoke again, and his manner was somewhat lacking in that respect for the rich man which had characterised it on his first arrival: “You’re one of the trustees, I suppose?” John Bradfield, very unused of late years to being spoken to in this way, answered curtly enough: “Yes, I’m one of them. Anything more you want to know?” “Only this--who are the others?” “Men you’ve never heard of. Old chums of Wryde’s.” “Do they live in England?” “No; out in Australia.” “Oh!” This exclamation might be taken as signifying assent, and it was thus that John Bradfield chose to take it; and the subject was dropped out of their talk, if not out of their minds.