"My brother is in a fit," Joseph cried; "help me to lift him out of the carriage, and then send some one for a doctor."
The unconscious form was lifted out in the arms of the two strong men. They carried it into the waiting-room, and laid it on a sofa.
The bell rang, and the Southampton train rushed onward without the two travellers.
In another moment the whole station was in commotion. A gentleman had been seized with paralysis, and was dying.
The doctor arrived in less than ten minutes. He shook his head, after examining his patient.
"It's a bad case," said he; "very bad; but we must do our best. Is there anybody with this old gentleman?"
"Yes, sir," the porter answered, pointing to Joseph; "this person is with him."
The country surgeon glanced rather suspiciously at Joseph Wilmot. He looked a vagabond, certainly—every inch a vagabond; a reckless, dare-devil scoundrel, at war with society, and defiant of a world he hated.
"Are you—any—relation to this gentleman?" the doctor asked, hesitatingly.
"Yes, I am his brother."