"It looks very difficult; yet you seemed to do it with much ease. Let me see the process again." And he pushed a piece of paper over to the man, who, gratified to find his skill so heartily appreciated, scrawled it all over with his sign-manual, in wearisome repetition. The paper was then passed from one to another, for a brief examination, and was finally left in the hands of Doctor Remy; who first began absently to roll it round his fingers, and ended by tearing it in three or four pieces, in a fit of apparent abstraction. Nobody noticed that one of these found its way into his pocket as a thing of possible utility, in the future.
He then rose. "I am sorry to be obliged to go so soon," said he, courteously, "but a physician's time is not his own. Good evening, Major Bergan, I am always at your service, and in any capacity. Good evening, Mr. Causton, doubtless, we shall meet again."
Dick glanced at the brandy bottle, and, seeing that it was empty, was taken with a sudden fancy for the doctor's society.
"I'll walk along with you, doctor, at least as far as our road is one," said he, rising. "Good company makes short miles."
"I came in the saddle," answered Doctor Remy, "but we can be companions as far as the gate, if you like."
Nevertheless, the pair did not separate at the gate. Their conversation had become too interesting, apparently, to both; and Dick Causton continued to walk on by the side of the doctor's horse.
It was late when he reached his cabin, that night. Very suggestively, too, he reeled across the threshold, and, missing the bed, deposited himself heavily on the floor.
"Tidt meder man ei did som man vil skyde, A man does not always aim at what he means to hit,"—he muttered, resignedly, merely changing his position for a more comfortable one, and dozing off to sleep.
Somewhere, on the way—or out of it—apparently, he had found a supplementary brandy bottle, and had not left it until it was as empty as the Major's.
It was late, too, when Doctor Remy laid his head on his pillow, that night. And, perhaps, in all Berganton, there was no wearier nor sadder man than he. One apparently well-constructed plan had just gone to pieces in his hands, without note of warning. Another was now to be built up out of the fragments, pitilessly rejecting whatever had been an element of weakness in the first. Already, its outline had begun to shape itself dimly against his mental horizon. Yet he did not allow himself to linger upon it to-night. With the rigid self-control which he habitually exercised, he put aside disappointment, care, and hope, and soon slept as soundly as if no anxiety rested on his mind, no stain on his conscience.