“I knew you would, Sidney,” he said. “He is outside by the front door.” Martin had dropped heavily on to the garden seat, and sat there with his eyes closed. That lump of hot metal in his head had grown larger and hotter; he felt as if something must burst. And he was so terribly tired; his walk had not done him the least good. Then he heard quick steps behind him on the gravel, but simply could not be troubled to look round. And then came his father’s voice. “My dearest lad,” he said, “come indoors at once.” Martin sat up with a jerk, and some chord of old memory twanged on the surface of his brain. “You’re not angry with me, father?” he said, nervously. Mr. Challoner bit his lip to stifle the exclamation of pain that rose bitterly within him. “Angry?” he said. “What put that into your dear old head? There, Martin, take my arm, and lean on me. Come inside out of the wind. There, old boy, steadily; there’s plenty of time. I hope we shan’t have you down with influenza, too. But it’s the luckiest thing in the world. The doctor is here now with your aunt, and he shall have a look at you.” But it needed all Mr. Challoner’s courage to get through with this cheerful chattering. Martin looked terribly ill to him. But he got him into his study, arranged the cushions on the sofa he so seldom used himself, and made him lie down. “Ah, that’s better,” said Martin. “Thanks, thanks ever so much, father.” He held out his hand to his father, who pressed it, and his voice trembled a little as he answered. “God bless you, my dear lad, for wanting to come and see me,” he said. “Now, is there anything you want? I shall send Dr. Thaxter to you as soon as he leaves your aunt.” Dr. Thaxter was a merry, rosy-faced little man with a manner so reassuring that one felt quite well directly, and in a few minutes he came bustling into the room. “Ah, Mr. Challoner,” he said, “your father tells me you are a bit knocked up. Not uncommon in this spring weather. Quite right to lie down. There, put that under your tongue, and don’t bite it.” He adjusted the thermometer and went chattering on. “And you’ve walked over from Chartries with your uncle, have you? Fine place that, and a fine healthy situation. Of course, you only came down yesterday. I saw the account of your concert in the paper. Ah, I wish I had been there. Now, I think we’ve given the thermometer long enough. Thank you. And you feel rather----“ The little doctor stopped suddenly in the middle of his sentence when he saw what was recorded on it. “You have a headache, I think your father said.” “I have nothing else, I think,” said Martin. Dr. Thaxter drew a chair close to the sofa, and sat down, looking at him very closely. “Ah, yes; that is to be expected with a little fever. You are rather feverish. Now, when did you begin to feel ill? When did you first feel a headache? Try to tell me all about it.”