Hugh procured a time-table. There was time to catch a fast train to F——. He saw the secretary, arranged for a deputy, and before he hardly realised the situation London was left far back in the distance in its purple veil of smoke, and they were rushing through brilliant autumnal scenes, under a breezy October sky. They could not talk during the journey; they had fellow-passengers. It was painful for Hugh to think that Mrs. Mervyn had doubted him, and still more painful to remember Lilia. Of course the non-arrival of the letter and telegrams meant—Roderick. Mr. Mervyn was on the platform, looking careworn and eager. At the sight of Hugh he brightened. He grasped his hand. “I knew you would come,” he said. Then, drawing him aside, he said: “You did not get my telegram? I thought not. Say as little as you can, will you? and be as unfathomable as a sphinx. I will explain later.” Evidently he knew more, in one respect, than Hugh did. A light dogcart was awaiting Hugh, and presently he was speeding along the lanes between the devastated hop-gardens behind Reindeer, who was going at full speed, while Mrs. Mervyn was following in the brougham with her husband. During the uphill slackening of Reindeer’s pace, Hugh gathered that Sir Roderick was still alive, though his death was, according to the doctors, imminent; that none of his servants were surprised—they had seen so great a change in their master since his accident; and that, since he had sent for his brother, Mr. Pym, even Miss Lilia had given up hope. “Miss Lilia couldn’t have believed he was agoing to die like other folks, I don’t believe, sir, if it hadn’t ha’ been for that,” said the sagacious Thomas. “They said as when she heard that the captain was to fetch his father, at Sir Roderick’s wish, she fainted dead away. They haven’t been friends, you see, sir, for many a long year; and Sir Roderick, when he makes up his mind—well, it isn’t easy to turn him. So I expect Miss Lilia knew, when he sent for Mr. Pym, that there wasn’t what you might call a straw left to cling to.” “She is better now?” asked Hugh. “I can’t say, sir, I’m sure.” It was hard work to obey Mr. Mervyn’s recommendation to be sphinx-like. But as the dogcart jogged down the steep incline leading to the garden entrance of the house, Hugh rallied himself, and determined to put aside all personal feeling, all emotions and passions, to follow no impulse, and to bear in mind that he was here on duty, as a species of death-bed sentinel—silent, motionless, except to salute the passing soul.