Meekly the man obeyed him, sitting crouched, his head between his hands.

Bertie regarded him with a severity more assumed than actual.  He had not the heart to send him away.  He knew it would have been sheer cruelty.

A long time passed.  Neither of the two watchers stirred.  Tawny Hudson did not even seem to breathe.  He sat like a human image of despair.

Noon came and passed.  Somewhere in the distance church bells began to peal.  Bertie started a little.  He had forgotten it was Sunday.  Dot would be just driving home from church.  She would not come to Baronmead, he knew.  It had been her original intention, but he had dissuaded her.  He knew that she was very anxious, but he would not have her run the risk of a shock.  If the operation failed, if Luke were to die, he would tell her himself.  He knew that he could soften the blow as none other could.

It was nearly one when at last the closed door opened.  Bertie was on his feet in an instant.  Dr. Randal came quietly out, glanced round, stopped.

“It is over.  We have taken him into the inner room, and he is recovering consciousness.  No, don’t go to him.  His man mustn’t go either.  We want all these doors open, wide open, the windows too.  But no one is to go near.  He must have absolute quiet.”

He propped open the door as he spoke.  His face was very grave.

“Remember,” he said, “that the banging of this door or any sudden sound may mean the end.”

“Is he so bad then?” said Bertie, speaking with effort.

“He is very bad indeed,” the doctor answered.  “The operation has been a protracted one.  If he lives, it will be a success.  But there is great weakness of the heart’s action.  Any moment may be the last.  Dr. Capper will not leave him at present.  Your brother is there too.”  He paused a moment.  “Your brother is a wonderful man,” he said, with the air of a man bestowing praise against his will.  “If you will be good enough to order some refreshment I will take it in.  On no account is Mr. Errol’s servant to go near.”

Slowly the hours of a day that seemed endless dragged away.  Bertie went home to his wife in the afternoon, taking Tawny Hudson, subdued and wretched, with him.

In the evening he returned, the man still following him like a pariah dog, to find the situation unaltered.  Capper and Nap were still with Lucas, whose life hung by a thread.

Bertie decided to remain for the night, and at a late hour he saw Capper for a moment.  The great man’s face was drawn and haggard.

“He won’t last through the night,” he said.  “Tell the ladies to be in readiness.  I will send for them if there is time.”

“No hope whatever?” said Bertie.

Capper shook his head.  “I fear—­none.  He is just running down—­sinking.  I think you had better not come in, but stay within call.”

He was gone again, and Bertie was left to give his message, and then to wait in anguish of spirit for the final call.