The unconscious man was removed from the railway station to an inn near at hand--a humble, countrified place, but clean and orderly. Here he was taken to a bed-chamber, whose old-fashioned latticed windows looked out upon the dusty road.
The doctor did all that his skill could devise, but he could not restore consciousness to the paralyzed brain. The soul was gone already. The body lay, a form of motionless and senseless clay, under the white counterpane; and Joseph Wilmot, sitting near the foot of the bed, watched it with a gloomy face.
The woman who was to nurse the sick man came by-and-by, and took her place by the pillow. But there was very little for her to do.
"Is there any hope of his recovering?" Joseph asked eagerly, as the doctor was about to leave the room.
"I fear not--I fear there is no hope."
"Will it be over soon?"
"Very soon, I think. I do not believe that he can last more than four-and-twenty hours."
The surgeon waited for a few moments after saying this, expecting some exclamation of surprise or grief from the dying man"s brother: but there was none; and with a hasty "good evening" the medical man quitted the room.
It was growing dusk, and the twilight shadows upon Joseph Wilmot"s face made it, in its sullen gloom, darker even than it had been in the railway carriage.
"I"m glad of it, I"m glad of it," he muttered; "I shall meet Harry Dunbar alone."
The bed-chamber in which the sick man lay opened out of a little sitting-room. Sampson"s carpet-bag and portmanteau had been left in this sitting-room.
Joseph Wilmot searched the pockets in the clothes that had been taken off his brother"s senseless form.
There was some loose silver and a bunch of keys in the waistcoat-pocket, and a well-worn leather-covered memorandum-book in the breast-pocket of the old-fashioned coat.
Joseph took these things into the sitting-room, closed the door between the two apartments, and then rang for lights.
The chambermaid who brought the candles asked if he had dined.
"Yes," he said, "I dined five hours ago. Bring me some brandy."
The girl brought a small decanter of spirit and a wine-gla.s.s, set them on the table, and left the room. Joseph Wilmot followed her to the door, and turned the key in the lock.
"I don"t want any intruders," he muttered; "these country people are always inquisitive."
He seated himself at the table, poured out a gla.s.s of brandy, drank it, and then drew one of the candles towards him.
He had put the money, the keys, and the memorandum-book, in one of his own pockets. He took out the memorandum-book first, and examined it.
There were five Bank of England notes for five pounds each in one of the pockets, and a letter in the other.
The letter was directed to Henry Dunbar, and sealed with the official seal of the banking-house. The name of Stephen Balderby was written on the left-hand lower corner of the envelope.
"So, so," whispered Joseph Wilmot, "this is the junior partner"s letter of welcome to his chief. I"ll take care of that."
He replaced the letter in the pocket of the memorandum-book, and then looked at the pencil entries on the different pages.
The last entry was the only memorandum that had any interest for him.
It consisted of these few words--
_"H.D., expected to arrive at Southampton Docks on or about the 19th inst., per steamer_ Electra; _will be met by Miss Laura D. at Portland Place."_
"Who"s Laura D.?" mused the spy, as he closed the memorandum-book. "His daughter, I suppose. I remember seeing his marriage in the papers, twenty years ago. He married well, of course. Fortune made _everything_ smooth for him. He married a lady of rank. Curse him!"
Joseph Wilmot sat for some time with his arms folded upon the table before him, brooding, brooding, brooding; with a sinister smile upon his lips, and an ominous light in his eyes.
A dangerous man always--a dangerous man when he was loud, reckless, brutal, violent: but most of all dangerous when he was most quiet.
By-and-by he took the bunch of keys from his pocket, knelt down before the portmanteau, and examined its contents.
There was very little to reward his scrutiny--only a suit of clothes, a couple of clean shirts, and the necessaries of the clerk"s simple toilet. The carpet-bag contained a pair of boots, a hat-brush, a night-shirt, and a faded old chintz dressing-gown.
Joseph Wilmot rose from his knees after examining these things, and softly opened the door between the two rooms. There had been no change in the sick chamber. The nurse still sat by the head of the bed. She looked round at Joseph, as he opened the door.
"No change, I suppose?" he said.
"No, sir; none."
"I am going out for a stroll, presently. I shall be in again in an hour"s time."
He shut the door again, but he did not go out immediately. He knelt down once more by the side of the portmanteau, and tore off the label with his brother"s name upon it. He tore a similar label off the carpet-bag, taking care that no vestige of the clerk"s name was left behind.
When he had done this, and thrust the torn labels into his pocket, he began to walk up and down the room, softly, with his arms folded upon his breast.
"The _Electra_, is expected to arrive on the nineteenth," he said, in a low, thoughtful voice, "on or about the nineteenth. She may arrive either before or after. To-morrow will be the seventeenth. If Sampson dies, there will be an inquest, no doubt: a post-mortem examination, perhaps: and I shall be detained till all that is over. I shall be detained two or three days at least: and in the mean time Henry Dunbar may arrive at Southampton, hurry on to London, and I may miss the one chance of meeting that man face to face. I won"t be balked of this meeting--I won"t be balked. Why should I stop here to watch by an unconscious man"s death-bed? No! Fate has thrown Henry Dunbar once more across my pathway: and I won"t throw my chance away."
He took up his hat--a battered, shabby-looking white hat, which harmonized well with his vagabond appearance--and went out, after stopping for a minute at the bar to tell the landlord that he would be back in an hour"s time.
He went straight to the railway station, and made inquiries as to the trains.
CHAPTER V.
SINKING THE PAST.
The train from London to Southampton was due in an hour. The clerk who gave Joseph Wilmot this information asked him how his brother was getting on.
"He is much better," Joseph answered. "I am going on to Southampton to execute some important business he was to have done there. I shall come back early to-morrow morning."
He walked into the waiting-room, and stopped there, seated in the same att.i.tude the whole time: never stirring, never lifting his head from his breast: always brooding, brooding, brooding: as he had brooded in the railway carriage, as he had brooded in the little parlour of the inn. He took his ticket for Southampton as soon as the office was open, and then stood on the platform, where there were two or three stragglers, waiting for the train to come up.
It came at last. Joseph Wilmot sprang into a second-cla.s.s carriage, took his seat in the corner, with his hat slouched over his eyes, which were almost hidden by its dilapidated brim.
It was late when he reached Southampton; but he seemed to be acquainted with the town, and he walked straight to a small public-house by the river-side, almost hidden under the shadow of the town wall.