The Rev. Peter Sprott, the rector, passing that way a few minutes later, and hearing what had befallen, went up to the bed-room, where the old gentleman lay in a four-poster, still unconscious.
“Here's a case,” said the doctor to his clerical friend. “A nervous attack. He'd be all right in no time, but he's so low. I daresay he crossed the herring-pond to-day, and was ill; he's in such an exhausted state. I should not wonder if he sank; and here we are, without a clue to his name or people. No servant, no name on his trunk; and, certainly, it would be awkward if he died unrecognised, and without a word to apprise his relations.”
“Is there no letter in his pockets?”
“Not one,” Truelock says.
The rector happened to take up the great-coat of the old gentleman, in which he found a small breast pocket, that had been undiscovered till now, and in this a letter. The envelope was gone, but the letter, in a lady's hand began: “My dearest papa.”
“We are all right, by Jove, we're in luck!”
“How does she sign herself?” said the doctor.
“‘Alice Arden,’ and she dates from 8, Chester Terrace,” answered the clergyman.
“We'll telegraph forthwith,” said the doctor. “It had best be in your name—the clergyman, you know—to a young lady.”
So together they composed the telegram.