"You arrived here, Sir Reginald, about six hours ago--extremely ill, Sir," said the doctor, who had placed himself close to his patient, and spoke with official authority; "but we have got you all right again, we hope; and this is the 'Royal Oak,' the principal hotel of Twyford, on the Dover and London road; and my name is Proby." "And what's all this?" cried the baronet, snatching up one of the medicine-bottles from the little table by his bed, and plucking out the cork and smelling at the fluid. "By heaven?" he screamed, "this is the very thing. I could not tell what d----d taste was in my mouth, and here it is. Why, my doctor tells me--and he knows his business--it is as much as my life's worth to give me anything like--like that, pah! assafœtida! If my stomach is upset with this filthy stuff, I give myself up! I'm gone. I shall sink, Sir. Was there no one here, in the name of Heaven, with a grain of sense or a particle of pity, to prevent that beast from literally poisoning me? Egad! I'll make my son punish him! I'll make my family hang him if I die!" There was a quaver of misery in his shriek of fury, as if he was on the point of bursting into tears. "Doctor, indeed! who sent for him? I didn't. Who gave him leave to drug me? Upon my soul, I've been poisoned. To think of a creature in my state, dependent on nourishment every hour, having his digestion destroyed! Doctor, indeed! Pay him? Not I, begad," and he clenched his sentence with an ugly expletive. But all this concluding eloquence was lost upon the doctor, who had mentioned, in a lofty "aside" to Miss Arden, that "unless sent for he should not call again;" and with a marked politeness to her, and no recognition whatever of the baronet, he had taken his departure. "I'm not the doctor, Sir Reginald; I'm the clergyman," said the Reverend Peter Sprott, gravely and timidly, for the prominent brown eyes were threatening him. "Oh, the clergyman! Oh, I see. Will you be so good as to ring the bell, please, and excuse a sick man giving you that trouble. And is there a post-office near this?" "Yes, Sir--close by." "This is you, Alice? I'm glad you're here. You must write a letter this moment--a note to your brother. Don't be afraid--I'm better, a good deal--and tell the people, when they come, to get me some strong soup this moment, and--good evening, Sir, or good-night, or morning, or whatever it is," he added, to the clergyman, who was taking his leave. "What o'clock is it?" he asked Alice. "Well, you'll write to your brother to meet me at Mortlake. I have not seen him, now, for how many years? I forget. He's in town, is he? Very good. And tell him it is perhaps the last time, and I expect him. I suppose he'll come. Say at a quarter past nine in the evening. The sooner it's over the better. I expect no good of it; it is only just to try. And I shall leave this early--immediately after breakfast--as quickly as we can. I hate it!" CHAPTER XIII. ON THE ROAD.