The red eyes looked redder than ever as Dr. Theobald opened them at the unwarrantable sight of me; and he was terribly slow in answering. But in the end he did answer, and did not kick me out as he evidently had a mind. “Mr. Maturin,” he said, and sighed like a beaten man. I said nothing. It was no surprise to me. I had known it all these minutes. Nay, I had dreaded this from the first, had divined it at the last, though to the last also I had refused to entertain my own conviction. Raffles dead! A real invalid after all! Raffles dead, and on the point of burial! “What did he die of?” I asked, unconsciously drawing on that fund of grim self-control which the weakest of us seem to hold in reserve for real calamity. “Typhoid,” he answered. “Kensington is full of it.” “He was sickening for it when I left, and you knew it, and could get rid of me then!” “My good fellow, I was obliged to have a more experienced nurse for that very reason.” The doctor’s tone was so conciliatory that I remembered in an instant what a humbug the man was, and became suddenly possessed with the vague conviction that he was imposing upon me now. “Are you sure it was typhoid at all?” I cried fiercely to his face. “Are you sure it wasn’t suicide—or murder?” I confess that I can see little point in this speech as I write it down, but it was what I said in a burst of grief and of wild suspicion; nor was it without effect upon Dr. Theobald, who turned bright scarlet from his well-brushed hair to his immaculate collar. “Do you want me to throw you out into the street?” he cried; and all at once I remembered that I had come to Raffles as a perfect stranger, and for his sake might as well preserve that character to the last. “I beg your pardon,” I said, brokenly. “He was so good to me—I became so attached to him. You forget I am originally of his class.” “I did forget it,” replied Theobald, looking relieved at my new tone, “and I beg _your_ pardon for doing so. Hush! They are bringing him down. I must have a drink before we start, and you’d better join me.” There was no pretence about his drink this time, and a pretty stiff one it was, but I fancy my own must have run it hard. In my case it cast a merciful haze over much of the next hour, which I can truthfully describe as one of the most painful of my whole existence. I can have known very little of what I was doing. I only remember finding myself in a hansom, suddenly wondering why it was going so slowly, and once more awaking to the truth. But it was to the truth itself more than to the liquor that I must have owed my dazed condition. My next recollection is of looking down into the open grave, in a sudden passionate anxiety to see the name for myself. It was not the name of my friend, of course, but it was the one under which he had passed for many months.