Yet when Hugh took up his position at the patient’s bedside with some books as the possible companions of his vigil, he smiled to himself with a cynical wonder. “Why am I doing this?” he asked himself. Why, indeed? He could have been summoned if any change took place. He could have ordered an extra night nurse for Sir Roderick. Why should he go out of his way for a strange man? Because this old man’s brother and the housekeeper had behaved so coolly, and his sense of humanity was aroused? Because this human windfall in the accident ward was Sir Roderick Pym, of Pym, Clithero & Pym? No! for neither of these reasons. Hugh Paull was in the habit of self-interrogation. His dissatisfaction with ordinary life as ordinary people took it had made him desperately in earnest; and being desperately in earnest, had made— “To thine own self be true, Thou canst not then be false to any man,” one of his governing mottoes. As he settled himself to his night watch he grimly told himself that he was here for the sole reason that he knew he could not without a struggle have kept away. Sir Roderick Pym attracted him like a magnet. Why, he had still to learn. Alternately watching the slightest movement of the patient, and reading, the night wore on. There was silence in the long ward. The rows of beds loomed whitely in the distance. The fire crackled. Now and then there was a sigh or a weary moan. The distant clatter of cab-wheels, the howl of a restless dog, or the slow rumbling of the market-waggons, were the only signs that not all in London slept, as did these victims of carelessness or misadventure within the quiet stone building. Between one and two o’clock, Sir Roderick gave signs of returning consciousness. As the night nurse glided from bed to bed, administering medicine to those patients for whom it had been ordered, he opened his eyes, and muttered something. Then he moved his head on his pillow, turned, and gradually subsided into natural sleep. After Hugh was completely satisfied that this was real slumber—“tired Nature’s sweet restorer,” indeed—he might safely have sought “balmy sleep” for his own solace; but by this time he was so wide awake, and his brain so fit for study, that he remained. Sir Roderick slept for hours as placidly as an infant, while Hugh studied with all his might and strength. At six o’clock the night nurse brought him a cup of tea, and congratulated him on the changed appearance of the patient. “Yes; he’ll do now, I think,” said Hugh, contentedly. The clatter of the spoon in the saucer, or the whispering, or both, aroused Sir Roderick. He opened his eyes, and stared at Hugh, first wildly, then with an amazed expression. “Kemble, in _Hamlet_,” he muttered. Then, as Hugh bit his lip to restrain a smile—a shaken brain must not be irritated—he frowned and stared, stared and frowned, then jerked his head away as from an unpleasant object.