“'There's no chance of that, though,' said I, negligently.
“'Who told you so, Paul?' said he, with a cunning cast of his eye.' That old drunken doctor said he 'd not insure him for twenty-four hours. A rum old beast he is! Do you know what he said to me awhile ago? “Captain,” said he, “do you know anything about chemistry?” “Nothing whatever,” said I. “Well,” said he, with a hiccup,—for he was far gone in liquor,—“albumen is the antidote to the muriate; and if you want to give him a longer line, let him have an egg to eat”.'”
“Good Heavens! Do you mean that he suspected—”
“He was dead drunk two minutes afterwards, and said that Hawke was dying of typhus, and that he'd certify under his hand. 'But no matter about him,' said he, impatiently. 'If Hawke goes off to-night, it will be a good thing for all of us. Here's this imp of a child!' muttered he, below his breath; 'let us be careful.' And so we parted company, each taking his own road.
“I walked about the grounds alone all day,—I need not tell you with what a heavy heart and a loaded conscience, and only came back to dinner. We were just sitting down to table, when the door opened, and, like a corpse out of his grave, Hawke stole slowly in, and sat down amongst us. He never spoke a word, nor looked at any one. I swear to you, so terrible was the apparition, so ghastly, and so death-like, that I almost doubted if he were still living.
“'Well done, old boy! there 's nothing will do you such good as a little cheering up,' cried Towers.
“'She's asleep,' said he, in a low, feeble voice, 'and so I stole down to eat my last dinner with you.'
“'Not the last for many a year to come,' said Wake, filling his glass. 'The doctor says you are made of iron.'
“'A man of mettle, I suppose,' said he, with a feeble attempt to laugh.
“'There! isn't he quite himself again?' cried Wake. 'By George! he 'll see us all down yet!'