The old clerk had fallen from his seat, and lay in a motionless heap at the bottom of the railway carriage. The third stroke of paralysis had come upon him; inevitable, no doubt, long ago; but hastened, it may be, by that unlooked-for meeting at the Waterloo terminus. Joseph Wilmot knelt beside the stricken man. He was a vagabond and an outcast, and scenes of horror were not new to him. He had seen death under many of its worst aspects, and the grim King of Terrors had little terror for him. He was hardened, steeped in guilt, and callous as to the sufferings of others. The love which he bore for his daughter was, perhaps, the last ray of feeling that yet lingered in this man's perverted nature. But he did all he could, nevertheless, for the unconscious old man. He loosened his cravat, unfastened his waistcoat, and felt for the beating of his heart. That heart did beat: very fitfully, as if the old clerk's weary soul had been making feeble struggles to be released from its frail tabernacle of clay. "Better, perhaps, if this should prove fatal," Joseph muttered; "I should go on alone to meet Henry Dunbar." The train reached Basingstoke; Joseph put his head out of the open window, and called loudly to a porter. The man came quickly, in answer to that impatient summons. "My brother is in a fit," Joseph cried; "help me to lift him out of the carriage, and then send some one for a doctor." The unconscious form was lifted out in the arms of the two strong men. They carried it into the waiting-room, and laid it on a sofa. The bell rang, and the Southampton train rushed onward without the two travellers. In another moment the whole station was in commotion. A gentleman had been seized with paralysis, and was dying. The doctor arrived in less than ten minutes. He shook his head, after examining his patient. "It's a bad case," said he; "very bad; but we must do our best. Is there anybody with this old gentleman?" "Yes, sir," the porter answered, pointing to Joseph; "this person is with him." The country surgeon glanced rather suspiciously at Joseph Wilmot. He looked a vagabond, certainly—every inch a vagabond; a reckless, dare-devil scoundrel, at war with society, and defiant of a world he hated. "Are you—any—relation to this gentleman?" the doctor asked, hesitatingly. "Yes, I am his brother." "I should recommend his being removed to the nearest hotel. I will send a woman to nurse him. Do you know if this is the first stroke he has ever had?" "No, I do not." The surgeon looked more suspicious than ever, after receiving this answer. "Strange," he said, "that you, who say you are his brother, should not be able to give me information upon that point." Joseph Wilmot answered with an air of carelessness that was almost contemptuous: "It is strange," he said; "but many stranger things have happened in this world before now. My brother and I haven't met for years until we met to-day."