“How is Master Colin, Medlock?” he inquired.

“Well, sir,” Mrs. Medlock answered, “he’s—­he’s different, in a manner of speaking.”

“Worse?” he suggested.

Mrs. Medlock really was flushed.

“Well, you see, sir,” she tried to explain, “neither Dr. Craven, nor the nurse, nor me can exactly make him out.”

“Why is that?”

“To tell the truth, sir, Master Colin might be better and he might be changing for the worse.  His appetite, sir, is past understanding—­and his ways—­”

“Has he become more—­more peculiar?” her master asked, knitting his brows anxiously.

“That’s it, sir.  He’s growing very peculiar—­when you compare him with what he used to be.  He used to eat nothing and then suddenly he began to eat something enormous—­and then he stopped again all at once and the meals were sent back just as they used to be.  You never knew, sir, perhaps, that out of doors he never would let himself be taken.  The things we’ve gone through to get him to go out in his chair would leave a body trembling like a leaf.  He’d throw himself into such a state that Dr. Craven said he couldn’t be responsible for forcing him.  Well, sir, just without warning—­not long after one of his worst tantrums he suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by Miss Mary and Susan Sowerby’s boy Dickon that could push his chair.  He took a fancy to both Miss Mary and Dickon, and Dickon brought his tame animals, and, if you’ll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until night.”

“How does he look?” was the next question.

“If he took his food natural, sir, you’d think he was putting on flesh—­but we’re afraid it may be a sort of bloat.  He laughs sometimes in a queer way when he’s alone with Miss Mary.  He never used to laugh at all.  Dr. Craven is coming to see you at once, if you’ll allow him.  He never was as puzzled in his life.”

“Where is Master Colin now?” Mr. Craven asked.

“In the garden, sir.  He’s always in the garden—­though not a human creature is allowed to go near for fear they’ll look at him.”

Mr. Craven scarcely heard her last words.

“In the garden,” he said, and after he had sent Mrs. Medlock away he stood and repeated it again and again.  “In the garden!”

He had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was standing in and when he felt he was on earth again he turned and went out of the room.  He took his way, as Mary had done, through the door in the shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds.  The fountain was playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers.  He crossed the lawn and turned into the Long Walk by the ivied walls.  He did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path.  He felt as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long forsaken, and he did not know why.  As he drew near to it his step became still more slow.  He knew where the door was even though the ivy hung thick over it—­but he did not know exactly where it lay—­that buried key.