Outside he met a disgusting sight. It was Timothy Lingard, staggering towards the mill, very much the worse for what he had been drinking.
"You can't go there; go home at once," said Archie.
"Night-watch—caretaker—said I'd be here," mumbled Timothy, trying to brush past him; and then finding Archie still stood as a hindrance in front of him, he tried to strike him—of course not knowing who it was—only he missed his aim, and fell down into the gutter.
There Archie left him, to seek a cab, which is not an easy thing to find at three o'clock in the morning. However, before long he did succeed in procuring one, and in it Stephen was conveyed to the nearest hospital.
Mr. Fairfax was just starting for his office the next morning when he was accosted by a respectable-looking working-man.
"Do I speak to Mr. Fairfax, sir?" he asked, touching his hat.
"Yes, that is my name. Can I do anything for you?"
"Would you be good enough, sir, to tell me where my son, Stephen Bennett, is? I hear he was taken ill last night."
"He's in the hospital. I'll take you—I was just going there myself," said Archie, who was with his father.