hand again, suddenly looked once more hard
in his face.

"Yes," he said, with a repetition of the
bitter laugh. "You have brought a poor
devil back into the world, who has no business
there. Do I astonish you? Well! I
have a fancy of my own for telling you what
men in my situation generally keep a secret.
I have no name and no father. The merciful
law of Society tells me I am Nobody's
Son! Ask your father if he will be my
father too, and help me on in life with the
family name."

Arthur looked at me, more puzzled than
ever. I signed to him to say nothing, and
then laid my fingers again on the man's
wrist. No! In spite of the extraordinary
speech that he had just made, he was not, as
I had been disposed to suspect, beginning
to get light-headed. His pulse, by this time
had fallen back to a quiet, slow beat, and
his skin was moist and cool. Not a symptom
of fever or agitation about him.

Finding that neither of us answered him,
he turned to me, and began talking of
the extraordinary nature of his case, and
asking my advice about the future course of
medical treatment to which he ought to
subject himself. I said the matter required
careful thinking over, and suggested that I
should submit certain prescriptions to him
the next morning. He told me to write
them at once, as he would, most likely, be
leaving Doncaster, in the morning, before I
was up. It was quite useless to represent to
him the folly and danger of such a proceeding
as this. He heard me politely and
patiently, but held to his resolution, without
offering any reasons or any explanations, and
repeated to me, that if I wished to give him
a chance of seeing my prescription, I must
write it at once. Hearing this, Arthur
volunteered the loan of a travelling writing-
case, which, he said, he had with him; and,
bringing it to the bed, shook the notepaper
out of the pocket of the case forthwith
in his usual careless way. With the paper,
there fell out on the counterpane of
the bed a small packet of sticking-plaster,
and a little water-colour drawing of a landscape.

The medical student took up the drawing
and looked at it. His eye fell on some
initials neatly written, in cypher, in one corner.
He started, and trembled; his pale face grew
whiter than ever; his wild black eyes turned
on Arthur, and looked through and through him.

"A pretty drawing," he said, in a remarkably
quiet tone of voice.

"Ah! and done by such a pretty girl," said
Arthur. "Oh, such a pretty girl! I wish it
was not a landscape—I wish it was a portrait
of her!"

"You admire her very much?"

Arthur, half in jest, half in earnest, kissed
his hand for answer.

"Love at first sight!" he said, putting the
drawing away again. "But the course of it
doesn't run smooth. It's the old story. She's
monopolised as usual. Trammelled by a rash
engagement to some poor man who is never
likely to get money enough to marry her.
It was lucky I heard of it in time, or I
should certainly have risked a declaration
when she gave me that drawing. Here,
doctor! Here is pen, ink, and paper all ready
for you."

"When she gave you that drawing? Gave
it. Gave it." He repeated the words slowly
to himself, and suddenly closed his eyes. A
momentary distortion passed across his face,
and I saw one of his hands clutch up the
bedclothes and squeeze them hard. I thought
he was going to be ill again, and begged that
there might be no more talking. He opened
his eyes when I spoke, fixed them once more
searchingly on Arthur, and said, slowly and
distinctly, "You like her, and she likes
you. The poor man may die out of
your way. Who can tell that she may not
give you herself as well as her drawing,
after all?"

Before young Holliday could answer, he
turned to me, and said in a whisper, "Now
for the prescription." From that time,
though he spoke to Arthur again, he never
looked at him more.

When I had written the prescription, he
examined it, approved of it, and then
us both by abruptly wishing us good
night. I offered to sit up with him, and he
shook his head. Arthur offered to sit up
with him, and he said, shortly, with his face
turned away, "No." I insisted on having
somebody left to watch him. He gave way
when he found I was determined, and said
he would accept the services of the waiter at
the inn.

"Thank you, both," he said, as we rose to
go. "I have one last favour to ask—not of
you, doctor, for I leave you to exercise your
professional discretion—but of Mr. Holliday."
His eyes, while he spoke, still rested steadily
on me, and never once turned towards
Arthur. "I beg that Mr. Holliday will not
mention to any one—least of all to his father
—the events that have occurred, and the
words that have passed, in this room. I
entreat him to bury me in his memory, as,
but for him, I might have been buried in my
grave. I cannot give my reasons for making
this strange request. I can only implore
him to grant it."

His voice faltered for the first time, and
he hid his face on the pillow. Arthur,
completely bewildered, gave the required pledge.
I took young Holliday away with me,
immediately afterwards, to the house of my
friend; determining to go back to the inn,
and to see the medical student again before
he had left in the morning.

I returned to the inn at eight o'clock,
purposely abstaining from waking Arthur, who