"Thanks," Dick answered dully. "I don't know that I'll use them now. I'll
be glad to get back and dare say I can do my work with one eye."
"You'll soon have both," Jake declared.
"It's doubtful," said Dick. "I don't think the doctor's very sanguine."
On the whole, he was relieved when Jake left, because he found it an
effort to talk, but the thoughts he afterwards indulged in were gloomy.
His broken ribs did not trouble him much, but there was some risk of his
losing his eye. He had helped to expose and banish Kenwardine, and could
not ask Clare to marry him after that, even if he were not half blind and
disfigured. Besides, it was doubtful if he would be able to resume his
profession or do any useful work again. The sight of the uninjured eye
might go. As a matter of fact, the strain he had borne for some time had
told upon his health and the shock of the accident had made things worse.
He had sunk into a dejected, lethargic mood, from which he had not the
vigor to rouse himself.
A week later he was helped on board a small French boat and sailed for
Santa Brigida. He did not improve with the sea air, as Jake had hoped,
and for the most part avoided the few passengers and sat alone in the
darkest corner he could find. Now and then he moodily read Kenwardine's
letters. He had at first expected much from them. They might have removed
the stain upon his name and the greatest obstacle between himself and
Clare; but he no longer cared much about the former and the letters were
useless now. For all that, he put them carefully away in a leather case
which he carried in an inside pocket.