The words were so far heard that Rupert moved his head on the bolster; perhaps the familiar name struck some chord in his memory; but there was no recognition, and he began to twitch at the bed-clothes with one of his hands. George turned away. He went down the ladder of a staircase, feeling that little time was to be lost. Old Canham stood in his tottering fashion, leaning upon his crutch, watching the descent. "What do you think of him, Mr. George?" "I hardly know what to think, Mark. Or rather, I know what to think, but I don't know what to do. A doctor must be got here; and without loss of time." Old Canham lifted his hands with a gesture of despair. "Once the secret is give over to a doctor, sir, there's no telling where it'll travel, or what'll be the consequence to us all." "I think King would be true," said George. "Nay, I feel sure he would be. The worst is, he's simple-minded, and might betray it through sheer inadvertency. I would a great deal rather bring Mr. Benage to him; I _know_ we might rely on Benage, and he is more skilful than King; but it is not practicable. To see the renowned Barmester doctor in attendance on you might create greater commotion at the Hold than would be desirable. No, it must be King." "Sir, couldn't you go to one o' the gentlemen yourself and describe what's the matter with Master Rupert. You needn't say who's ill." George shook his head. "It would not do, Mark; the responsibility is too great. Were anything to happen to Rupert--and I believe he is in danger--you and I should blame ourselves for not having called in advice at all risks. I shall get King here somehow." He went out as he spoke, partly perhaps to avoid further opposition to what he felt _must_ be done. Yet he did not see the surrounding difficulties the less, and halted in thought outside the lodge door. At that moment, Maude Trevlyn came into view, walking slowly down the avenue. George advanced to meet her, and could not help noticing her listless step, her pale, weary face. "Maude, what is the trouble now?" That she had been grieving, and recently, her eyes betrayed. Struggling for a brief moment with her feelings, she gave way to a burst of tears. George drew her into the trees. "Maude, Maude, if you go on like this you will be ill. What is it?" "This suspense!--this agony!" she breathed. "Every day, almost every hour, something or other occurs to renew the trouble. If it could only end! I cannot bear it much longer. I feel as if I must go off to the ends of the earth in search of him. If I only knew he was living, it would be something." George took rapid counsel with himself. Surely Maude would be safe; surely it would be a charity, nay, a duty, to tell her! He drew her hand in his, and bent his face near to hers. "Maude! what will you give me for news I have heard? I can give you tidings of Rupert. He is not dead; not even very far away!"