He swore savagely as Earle made his appearance, and defiantly demanded what he was going to do with him. “Take care of you until you get on your legs again,” was the calm reply, as he held some pleasant, cooling drink to the man’s parched lips. He drank eagerly, and then fell back among the soft pillows with a groan. “Bosh! that’s a likely story!” he returned, after a minute, with an angry flash of his eyes; “out with it, and don’t keep me in suspense; I’ve enough to bear with this pain.” “So you have, poor fellow!” Earle answered, kindly; “and it is just as I have told you—you are to stay here and be nursed until you get well.” “What! stay here?” and the man’s eyes wandered around the luxurious apartment in a look of amazement. “Yes, in this very room. Don’t you know that you cannot bear to be removed?” “I don’t feel much like it, that’s a fact,” he said, suppressing another groan; “but”—with a keen look into the kind face above him—“what right have _you_ to say it?” “The right of ownership—I am master here.” “_You!_” “Yes; you recognize me, then?” “Of course I do; and you knew me instanter, which isn’t strange, considering one isn’t likely to forget a phiz like mine; but—but——” “But you had no idea that you were breaking into _my_ house when you came here last night,” interrupted Earle. “No; I’ll be —— if I did!” was the irreverent but energetic reply. “There has been a change in my circumstances of late.” “I should think so! Then _you_ are the Marquis of Wycliffe?” “Yes. What did you expect to find here in the way of plunder?” “I may as well own up, I suppose, since I’m where I can’t help myself,” the man replied, recklessly. “I was after the family jewels, which I was told were kept here.” “They are not here. I had them deposited in the treasure vault more than a month ago. There was only a little money in my safe, for I had paid off my help only yesterday; so you see, my friend, you have had your sin and risked your life for nothing,” Earle said, gravely. Tom Drake swore savagely again at this information. “Do not be profane—indeed I must request you to drop that sort of talk while you are here,” Earle said, with decision. “And you really don’t mean to send me to the hospital?” “No, indeed. I do not need to tell you that you have a long, hard job before you from the wound my ball gave you, and that it will be a good while before you will get about again.” Earle thought he might as well talk of things just as they were. Tom Drake nodded assent, a look of grim endurance on his ugly face. “And,” continued Earle, “unless you have good care—the very best care—it is doubtful whether you ever have the use of your leg again.” “And what should that matter to _you_?” was the gruff query, accompanied by a suspicious glance. “It matters this to me: One whom I profess to serve has bidden me to care for the sick and needy,” Earle said, gently.