I rose with alacrity, rejoicing that the poor girl was going out, even for half an hour.  She was looking terribly wearied and haggard; and the sight of her pale cheeks made my heart ache.  I went to the sick-room; and sat down in my usual place.  Mrs. Grant was then on duty; we had not found it necessary to have more than one person in the room during the day.  When I came in, she took occasion to go about some household duty.  The blinds were up, but the north aspect of the room softened the hot glare of the sunlight without.

I sat for a long time thinking over all that Mr. Corbeck had told me; and weaving its wonders into the tissue of strange things which had come to pass since I had entered the house.  At times I was inclined to doubt; to doubt everything and every one; to doubt even the evidences of my own five senses.  The warnings of the skilled detective kept coming back to my mind.  He had put down Mr. Corbeck as a clever liar, and a confederate of Miss Trelawny.  Of Margaret!  That settled it!  Face to face with such a proposition as that, doubt vanished.  Each time when her image, her name, the merest thought of her, came before my mind, each event stood out stark as a living fact.  My life upon her faith!

I was recalled from my reverie, which was fast becoming a dream of love, in a startling manner.  A voice came from the bed; a deep, strong, masterful voice.  The first note of it called up like a clarion my eyes and my ears.  The sick man was awake and speaking!

“Who are you?  What are you doing here?”

Whatever ideas any of us had ever formed of his waking, I am quite sure that none of us expected to see him start up all awake and full master of himself.  I was so surprised that I answered almost mechanically: 

“Ross is my name.  I have been watching by you!” He looked surprised for an instant, and then I could see that his habit of judging for himself came into play.

“Watching by me!  How do you mean?  Why watching by me?” His eye had now lit on his heavily bandaged wrist.  He went on in a different tone; less aggressive, more genial, as of one accepting facts: 

“Are you a doctor?” I felt myself almost smiling as I answered; the relief from the long pressure of anxiety regarding his life was beginning to tell: 

“No, sir!”

“Then why are you here?  If you are not a doctor, what are you?” His tone was again more dictatorial.  Thought is quick; the whole train of reasoning on which my answer must be based flooded through my brain before the words could leave my lips.  Margaret!  I must think of Margaret!  This was her father, who as yet knew nothing of me; even of my very existence.  He would be naturally curious, if not anxious, to know why I amongst men had been chosen as his daughter’s friend on the occasion of his illness.  Fathers are naturally a little jealous in such matters as a daughter’s choice, and in the undeclared state of my love for Margaret I must do nothing which could ultimately embarrass her.