The trains from the junction to Heath-on-Sea were few and invariably late.  Scott had been pacing the platform for half an hour on the evening of the day that followed his own arrival ere a line of distant smoke told of the coming of the train he was awaiting.

His movements were slow and weary, but there was about him the strained look of a man who cannot rest.  There was no gladness of welcome in his eyes as the train drew near.  It was rather as if he braced himself for a coming ordeal.

He searched the carriages intently as they ran past him, and a flicker of recognition came into his face at the sight of a tall figure leaning from one of them.  He lifted a hand in salutation, and limped along the platform to meet the newcomer.

Sir Eustace was out of the train before anyone else.  He met his brother with the impetuosity of one who cannot stop for greeting.

“Ah, Stumpy!  I’m not too late?”

There was strain upon his face also as he flung the question, and in an instant Scott’s look had changed.  He grasped the outflung hand.

“No, no, old fellow!  It’s all right.  She is looking forward to seeing you.”

Sir Eustace drew a sharp breath.  His dark face relaxed a little.  “I’ve had a hell of a time,” he said.

“My dear chap, I’m sorry,” impulsively Scott made answer.  “I’d have met you at the junction, only it was difficult to get away for so long.  Do you mind walking up?  They’ll see to fetching your traps along presently.”

“Oh, all right.  Yes, let us walk by all means!” Eustace expanded his chest, and breathed again, deeply.  He put his hand on Scott’s shoulder as they passed through the barrier.  “What’s the matter with you, my lad?” he said.

Scott glanced up at him—­a swift, surprised glance.  “With me?  Nothing.  I am—­as usual.”

Eustace’s hawk-eyes scanned him closely.  “I’ve never seen you look worse,” he said.

Scott raised his shoulder slightly under his hand, and said nothing.  The first involuntary kindliness of greeting passed wholly away, as if it had not been.

Eustace linked the hand in his arm as they walked.  “Tell me about her!” he said.

“About Isabel?” Scott spoke with very obvious constraint.  “There isn’t much to tell.  She is just—­going.  These breathless attacks come very frequently, and she is weaker after each one.  The doctor says it would not be surprising if she went in her sleep, or in fact at any time.”

“And she asked for me?” The question fell curtly; Eustace was looking straight ahead up the white, dusty road as he uttered it.

“Yes; she wanted you.”  Equally curtly came Scott’s reply.  He ignored the hand on his arm, limping forward at his own pace and leaving his brother to accommodate himself to it as best he could.

Sir Eustace sauntered beside him in silence for a space.  They were approaching the heath-clad common that gave the place its name, when he spoke again.