"Yes, sir, Mr. Moore is up-stairs; but I'm afraid he's very unwell."
"What is the matter?" Maurice asked, instantly.
"He must have got wet coming home last night, sir; and he has caught a
bad cold. I've just been for Dr. Whitsen, and he will be here at
twelve."
"But Dr. Whitsen is a throat doctor."
"Yes, sir; but it is always his throat Mr. Moore is most anxious about;
and when he found himself husky this morning, he would take nothing but
a raw egg beaten up and a little port-wine negus; and now he won't
speak--he will only write on a piece of paper. He is saving himself for
the theatre to-night, sir, I think that is it; but would you like to go
up and see him?"
"Oh, yes, I will go up and see him," Mangan said; and without more ado
he ascended the stairs and made his way into Lionel's bedroom.
He found his friend under a perfect mountain of clothes that had been
heaped upon him; and certainly he was not shivering now--on the
contrary, his face was flushed and hot, and his eyes singularly bright
and restless. As soon as Lionel saw who this new-comer was, he made a
sign that a block of paper and a pencil lying on the table should be
brought to him; and, turning slightly, he put the paper on the pillow
and wrote:
"I'm nursing my voice--hope to be all right by night--are you busy
to-day, Maurice?"
"No; there is no House on Saturday," Maurice made answer.
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