"What is?" I asked, though I knew.
"That infernal man at the door: I can see nearly all his face round the corner now, and I tell you I'm losing my nerve. And there's a new development: he doesn't always look at me now. I've noticed sometimes that his eyes—I can see both are fixed on Helene, my wife; and it's that, I think, that has shaken me."
"You haven't told her, I suppose?" said I.
"Of course not: but I think she sees that there's something wrong. I've seen her look at me very curiously at times, though she doesn't say anything. You don't think I ought to tell her?"
"Certainly not," I said; "but for goodness' sake go to a decent doctor when you get home, and tell him everything. I'm very sorry for you, my dear fellow, but that's really all I can advise; and if I were you I wouldn't put it off too long."
"SHE WAS A RUSSIAN, AND I WAS MUCH STRUCK BY HER BEAUTY."
"We're going home next week," he said, and we parted. I really don't see what I could have said that could have done the slightest good. It was in his liver or his eyes that the fault lay, I thought—I'm not so sure about that now—and I'm no doctor.
Well, two days after this interview, while Robinson and I were at dinner, a waiter came to me and said that there was a lady in our private room who insisted on seeing me immediately. I went up, of course, and there found Mrs. Barton in a state of terrible excitement and anxiety.
"You must come with me, Mr. Campbell," she cried, on seeing me; "my husband has met with a terrible accident," and she literally dragged me out of the hotel into her carriage.