"Why, it is from old Richard Pratt!" exclaimed Mr. Hamlyn, as he turned to the light.
"I thought Major Pratt never wrote letters," she remarked. "I once heard you say he must have forgotten how to write."
He did not answer. He was reading the note, which appeared to be a short one. She watched him. After reading it through he began it again, a puzzled look upon his face. Then she saw it flush all over, and he crushed the note into his pocket.
"What is it about, Philip?"
"Pratt wants a prescription for gout that I told him of. I'm sure I don't know whether I can find it."
He had answered in a dreamy tone with thoughts preoccupied, and quitted the room hastily, as if to search for it.
Eliza wondered why he should flush up at being asked for a prescription, and why he should have suddenly lost himself in a reverie. But she had not much curiosity as to anything that concerned old Major Pratt—who was at present staying in lodgings in London.
Downstairs went Mr. Hamlyn to the little room he called his library, seated himself at the table under the lamp, and opened the note again. It ran as follows:
"Dear Philip Hamlyn,—The other day, when calling here, you spoke of some infallible prescription to cure gout that had been given you. I've symptoms of it flying about me—and be hanged to it! Bring it to me yourself to-morrow; I want to see you. I suppose there was no mistake in the report that that ship did go down?—and that none of the passengers were saved from it?
"Truly yours,