“Who is he?” inquired Mr. Truelock.
“I don't know,” answered the postilion.
“What's his name?”
“Don't know that, neither.”
“Why, it'll be on that box, won't it?” urged the innkeeper, pointing to the roof, where a portmanteau with a glazed cover was secured.
“Nothing on that but ‘R. A.,’” answered the man, who had examined it half an hour before, with the same object.
“Royal Artillery, eh?”
While they were thus conjecturing, the doctor arrived. He stepped into the chaise, felt the old man's hand, tried his pulse, and finally applied the stethoscope.
“It is a nervous seizure. He is in a very exhausted state,” said the doctor, stepping out again, and addressing Truelock. “You must get him into bed, and don't let his head down; take off his handkerchief, and open his shirt-collar—do you mind? I had best arrange him myself.”
So the forlorn old man, without a servant, without a name, is carried from the chaise, possibly to die in an inn.