“We were a caravan for all that night,” Dominique resumed.  “In the morning by noon we ceased to be a caravan; Signor Harz took a mule path; he will be in Italy—­certainly in Italy.  As for us, we stayed at San Martino, and my master went to bed.  It was time; I had much trouble with his clothes, his legs were swollen.  In the afternoon came a signor of police, on horseback, red and hot; I persuaded him that we were at Paneveggio, but as we were not, he came back angry—­Mon Die! as angry as a cat.  It was not good to meet him—­when he was with my master I was outside.  There was much noise.  I do not know what passed, but at last the signor came out through the door, and went away in a hurry.”  Dominique’s features were fixed in a sardonic grin; he rubbed the palm of one hand with the finger of the other.  “Mr. Treffry made me give him whisky afterwards, and he had no money to pay the bill—­that I know because I paid it.  Well, M’mselle, to-day he would be dressed and very slowly we came as far as Auer; there he could do no more, so went to bed.  He is not well at all.”

Christian was overwhelmed by forebodings; the rest of the journey was made in silence, except when Barbi, a country girl, filled with the delirium of railway travel, sighed:  “Ach! gnadige Fraulein!” looking at Christian with pleasant eyes.

At once, on arriving at the little hostel, Christian went to see her uncle.  His room was darkened, and smelt of beeswax.

“Ah!  Chris,” he said, “glad to see you.”

In a blue flannel gown, with a rug over his feet, he was lying on a couch lengthened artificially by chairs; the arm he reached out issued many inches from its sleeve, and showed the corded veins of the wrist.  Christian, settling his pillows, looked anxiously into his eyes.

“I’m not quite the thing, Chris,” said Mr. Treffry.  “Somehow, not quite the thing.  I’ll come back with you to-morrow.”

“Let me send for Dr. Dawney, Uncle?”

“No—­no!  Plenty of him when I get home.  Very good young fellow, as doctors go, but I can’t stand his puddin’s—­slops and puddin’s, and all that trumpery medicine on the top.  Send me Dominique, my dear—­I’ll put myself to rights a bit!” He fingered his unshaven cheek, and clutched the gown together on his chest.  “Got this from the landlord.  When you come back we’ll have a little talk!”

He was asleep when she came into the room an hour later.  Watching his uneasy breathing, she wondered what it was that he was going to say.

He looked ill!  And suddenly she realised that her thoughts were not of him....  When she was little he would take her on his back; he had built cocked hats for her and paper boats; had taught her to ride; slid her between his knees; given her things without number; and taken his payment in kisses.  And now he was ill, and she was not thinking of him!  He had been all that was most dear to her, yet before her eyes would only come the vision of another.