He had been away from England for over a year, and when he came back he
learned that the Bellairs were away, living in the country, where they
had taken a house for the sake of their boy. As time had gone on, Elwyn and his friends had somehow drifted apart, as
people are apt to drift apart in the busy idleness of the life led by
the fortunate Bellairs and Elwyns of this world. Fanny avoided Hugh
Elwyn, and Elwyn avoided Fanny, but they two only were aware of this. It
was the last of the many secrets which they had once shared. When he
and Bellair by chance met alone, all the old cordiality and even the old
affection seemed to come back, if not to Elwyn then to the other man. And now the child, to whom it seemed not only Fanny but Jim Bellair also
was so devoted, was ill, and he, Hugh Elwyn, had been the last to hear
of it. He felt vaguely remorseful that this should be so. There had been
years when nothing that affected Bellair could have left him
indifferent, and a time when the slightest misadventure befalling Fanny
would have called forth his eager, helpful sympathy. How strange it would be--he quickened his footsteps--if this child, with
whom he was at once remotely and intimately concerned, were to die! He
could not help feeling, deep down in his heart, that this would be, if a
tragic, then a natural solution of a painful and unnatural problem--and
then, quite suddenly, he felt horribly ashamed of having allowed himself
to think this thought, to wish this awful wish. Why should he not go now, at once, to Manchester Square, and inquire as
to the little boy's condition? It was not really late, not yet midnight. He could go and leave a message, perhaps even scribble a line to Jim
Bellair explaining that he had come round as soon as he had heard of the
child's illness. II

When Hugh Elwyn reached the familiar turning whence he could see the
Bellairs' high house, time seemed to have slipped back. The house was all lit up as it had been on that summer night seven years
ago. Everything was the same--even to the heaped-up straw into which his
half-reluctant feet now sank. There was even a doctor's carriage drawn
up a little way from the front door, but this time it was a smart
electric brougham. He rang the bell, and as the door opened, Jim Bellair suddenly came into
the hall, out of a room which Elwyn knew to be the smoking-room--a room
in which he and Fanny had at one time spent long hours in contented, nay
in ecstatic, dual solitude. "I have come to inquire--I only heard to-night--" he began awkwardly,
but the other cut him short, "Yes, yes, I understand--it's awfully good
of you, Elwyn! I'm awfully glad to see you. Come in here--" and perforce
he had to follow. "The doctor's upstairs--I mean Sir Joseph Pixton. Fanny was determined to have him, and he very kindly came, though of
course he's not a child's doctor. He's annoyed because Fanny won't have
trained nurses; but I don't suppose anything would make any difference. It's just a fight--a fight for the little chap's life--that's what it
is, and we don't know yet who'll win." He spoke in quick, short sentences, staring with widely open eyes at his
erstwhile friend as he spoke. "Pneumonia--I suppose you don't know
anything about it? I thought children never had such things, especially
not in hot weather." "I had a frightful illness when I was about your boy's age," said Elwyn
eagerly. "It's the first thing I can really remember. They called it
inflammation of the lungs. I was awfully bad. My mother talks of it now,
sometimes." "Does she?" Bellair spoke wearily. "If only one could _do_ something,"
he went on. "But you see the worst of it is that I can do
nothing--nothing! Fanny hates my being up there--she thinks it upsets
the boy. He's such a jolly little chap, Hugo. You know we called him
Peter after Fanny's father?" Elwyn moved towards the door. He felt dreadfully moved by the other's
pain. He told himself that after all he could do no good by staying, and
he felt so ashamed, such a cur----

"You don't want to go away yet?" There was sharp chagrin, reproachful
dismay, in Bellair's voice. Elwyn remembered that in old days Jim had
always hated being alone. "Won't you stay and hear what Pixton says? Or--or are you in a hurry?" Elwyn turned round. "Of course I'll stay," he said briefly. Bellair spared him thanks, but he began walking about the room
restlessly. At last he went to the door and set it ajar. "I want to hear
when Sir Joseph comes down," he explained, and even as he spoke there
came the sound of heavy, slow footsteps on the staircase. Bellair went out and brought the great man in. "I've told Mrs. Bellair that we ought to have Bewdley! He knows a great
deal more about children than I can pretend to do; and I propose, with
your leave, to go off now, myself, and if possible bring him back." The
old doctor's keen eyes wandered as he spoke from Bellair's fair face to
Hugh Elwyn's dark one. "Perhaps," he said, "perhaps, Mr. Bellair, you
would get someone to telephone to Dr. Bewdley's house to say that I'm
coming? It might save a few moments." As Bellair left the room, the doctor turned to Elwyn and said abruptly,
"I hope you'll be able to stay with your brother? All this is very hard
on him; Mrs. Bellair will scarcely allow him into the child's room, and
though that, of course, is quite right, I'm sorry for the man. He's
wrapped up in the child." And when Bellair came back from accompanying the old doctor to his
carriage, there was a smile on his face--the first smile which had been
there for a long time: "Pixton thinks you're my brother! He said, 'I
hope your brother will manage to stay with you for a bit.' Now I'll go
up and see Fanny. Pixton is certainly more hopeful than the last man we
had--"

Bellair's voice had a confident ring. Elwyn remembered with a pang that
Jim had always been like that--always believed, that is, that the best
would come to pass. When left alone, Elwyn began walking restlessly up and down, much as his
friend had walked up and down a few minutes ago. Something of the
excitement of the fight going on above had entered into him; he now
desired ardently that the child should live, should emerge victor from
the grim struggle. At last Bellair came back. "Fanny believes that this is the night of
crisis," he said slowly. All the buoyancy had left his voice. "But--but
Elwyn, I hope you won't mind--the fact is she's set her heart on your
seeing him. I told her what you told me about yourself, I mean your
illness as a child, and it's cheered her up amazingly, poor girl! Perhaps you could tell her a little bit more about it, though I like to
think that if the boy gets through it"--his voice broke suddenly--"she
won't remember this--this awful time. But don't let's keep her
waiting--" He took Elwyn's consent for granted, and quickly the two men
walked up the stairs of the high house, on and on and on.