Reginald sat on the couch across from her, unable to keep from grinning as he sat back and got comfortable. He'd started a fire some hours ago and it was getting low now, but his room was comfortable. It was familiar and welcoming -- almost like he'd never left at all. "Straight to it," he said with an approving nod.
"The last few days that I was in this house with the rest of you, I had begun to feel off," he said. "Worn down, fatigued. An uncomfortable wheezing in the chest, a cough at night. I didn't tell anyone. I kept that to myself. I felt as though I had a pretty good guess of what was coming and I knew perfectly well there was nothing you or anyone could do." He paused, and his expression had grown a touch mournful and yet almost sympathetic. There was regret there. He knew he would pain her with this information. "I made the choice to hide my illness -- from you in particular. I did all the things my wife and children would have nagged me about doing, and probably you as well. I didn't know what was coming, but I couldn't justify making the people here worry. That last day dragged on forever -- I scarcely got out of bed. It was a rough night. I woke in another place. One of those machines from the exams was there. I was on an IV and oxygen. A robotic voice told me I was sick, and they had taken me out of the mansion for my health. I stayed there until I recovered and I couldn't clearly tell you how long that took but then, I stayed in that place for a while. It was a nice little cottage, and if it wasn't in Britain, it was a most convincing forgery."