The unconscious man was removed from the railway station to an inn near at hand—a humble, countrified place, but clean and orderly. Here he was taken to a bed-chamber, whose old-fashioned latticed windows looked out upon the dusty road. The doctor did all that his skill could devise, but he could not restore consciousness to the paralyzed brain. The soul was gone already. The body lay, a form of motionless and senseless clay, under the white counterpane; and Joseph Wilmot, sitting near the foot of the bed, watched it with a gloomy face. The woman who was to nurse the sick man came by-and-by, and took her place by the pillow. But there was very little for her to do. "Is there any hope of his recovering?" Joseph asked eagerly, as the doctor was about to leave the room. "I fear not—I fear there is no hope." "Will it be over soon?" "Very soon, I think. I do not believe that he can last more than four-and-twenty hours." The surgeon waited for a few moments after saying this, expecting some exclamation of surprise or grief from the dying man's brother: but there was none; and with a hasty "good evening" the medical man quitted the room. It was growing dusk, and the twilight shadows upon Joseph Wilmot's face made it, in its sullen gloom, darker even than it had been in the railway carriage. "I'm glad of it, I'm glad of it," he muttered; "I shall meet Harry Dunbar alone." The bed-chamber in which the sick man lay opened out of a little sitting-room. Sampson's carpet-bag and portmanteau had been left in this sitting-room. Joseph Wilmot searched the pockets in the clothes that had been taken off his brother's senseless form. There was some loose silver and a bunch of keys in the waistcoat-pocket, and a well-worn leather-covered memorandum-book in the breast-pocket of the old-fashioned coat. Joseph took these things into the sitting-room, closed the door between the two apartments, and then rang for lights. The chambermaid who brought the candles asked if he had dined. "Yes," he said, "I dined five hours ago. Bring me some brandy." The girl brought a small decanter of spirit and a wine-glass, set them on the table, and left the room. Joseph Wilmot followed her to the door, and turned the key in the lock. "I don't want any intruders," he muttered; "these country people are always inquisitive." He seated himself at the table, poured out a glass of brandy, drank it, and then drew one of the candles towards him. He had put the money, the keys, and the memorandum-book, in one of his own pockets. He took out the memorandum-book first, and examined it. There were five Bank of England notes for five pounds each in one of the pockets, and a letter in the other. The letter was directed to Henry Dunbar, and sealed with the official seal of the banking-house. The name of Stephen Balderby was written on the left-hand lower corner of the envelope.