“_To Roderick Pym, Captain — Division_, “_45th Fusiliers, The Camp, Aldershot_. “_Can I see you here to-morrow on most important and serious business? If you cannot leave, I must go to you._ _Hugh Paull_, “_The S—— Hospital_.” “I think that will fetch him,” he thought, as he returned through the silent City streets. “He will think it is something connected with the state of his uncle’s health—with Lilia.” He smiled bitterly to himself. “Heavens! how dare I suspect him of being that villain?” he thought. “Yet, would not any ordinary person do so? Can he be a near relation of that poor girl’s? I must not think of it all! Come what may, I must keep my head clear.” Next morning the return telegram came:— “_Will be at your place about ten. Must be back here at three._” It was well for Hugh that Friday was a busy morning, besides there being extra work on in consequence of yesterday’s influx of accidents; for, despite the close attention he must pay to his arduous occupation, his nervous agitation as ten o’clock struck from the tower above the entrance to the hospital was great. At ten minutes past the hour he was fetched. “The gentleman” had arrived. “He is ashamed of sending in his card,” thought Hugh. “Am I not good enough for him? Or has he an uneasy conscience?” Captain Pym was in the hall, standing in an easy attitude, his hands behind him, swinging his cane, ostensibly studying the notices and regulations on the green-baize-covered board. He turned to meet Hugh with an amused smile. “What laws of the Medes and Persians!” he said, airily, as he shook hands. “Ours in the service are mere child’s play in comparison! Well, what does the mysterious summons portend?” His whole appearance—he wore a light shooting-coat and delicacies in ties and gloves—his flippant manner, just tinged with condescension—chilled Hugh, especially when he thought of that pale corpse, lying straight and still, whose poor thin hand had written the name of this human butterfly for the last time. “If you will come to my room, I will explain,” he said, leading the way through the hall and up the stone staircase. He had intended to suddenly produce the packet of letters and watch the effect upon Roderick. But, as he mounted the staircase, a better idea occurred to him. “I suppose it is something about my uncle—poor old fellow,” said Captain Pym, as soon as they had fairly entered Hugh’s sitting-room, throwing himself into a chair. “Gad! How close it is to-day! Thunder about, I should say.”