As Sewell awoke, it was already evening. Fatigue and anxiety together had so overcome him that he slept like one drugged by a narcotic; nor did he very quickly recall on awakening how and wherefore he had not been to bed. His servant had left two letters on his table while he slept, and these served to remind him of some at least of the troubles that last oppressed him. One was from his law-agent, regretting that he could not obtain for him the loan he solicited on any terms whatever, and mildly suggesting that he trusted the Colonel would be prepared to meet certain acceptances which would fall due in the coming week. The other was from a friend whom he had often assisted in moments of difficulty, and ran:-- “Dear S.,--I lost two hundred last night at pool, and, what's worse, can't pay it. That infernal rule of yours about prompt payment will smash us both,--but it's so like you! You never had a run of luck yet that you didn't do something that turned against you afterwards. Your clever rule about the selling-stakes cost me the best mare I ever had; and now this blessed stroke of your genius leaves me in doubt whether to blow my brains out or start for Boulogne. As Tom Beecher said, you are a 'deuced deal too 'cute to prosper.' If I have to cross the water, I suspect you might as well come with me.--Yours, “Dick Vaughan.” Sewell tore the note up into the smallest fragments, muttering savagely to himself the while. “I'll be bound,” said he, “the cur is half consoled for his mishap by seeing how much worse ruin has befallen _me_,--What is it, Watkin? What do you want?” cried he to his servant, who came hastily into the room. “His Lordship has taken a bad turn, sir, and Mrs. Sewell wants to see you immediately.” “All right! Say I'm coming. Who knows,” muttered he, “but there's a chance for me yet?” He turned into his dressing-room and bathed his temples and his head with cold water, and, refreshed at once, he ascended the stairs. “Another attack has come on. He was sleeping calmly,” said Mrs. Sewell as she met him, “when he awoke with a start, and broke out into wild raving. I have sent for Beattie; but what is to be done meanwhile?” “I 'm no doctor; I can't tell you.” “Haire thinks the ice ought to be applied; the nurse says-a blister or mustard to the back of the neck.” “Is he really in danger?--that's the question.” “I believe so. I never saw him so ill.” “You think he's dying?” said he, fiercely, as though he would not brook any sort of equivocation; but the coarseness of his manner revolted her, and she turned away without reply. “There's no time to be lost,” muttered Sewell, as he hastened downstairs. “Tell George I want the carriage to the door immediately,” said he; and then, entering his own room, he opened his writing-desk, and, after some search, came upon a packet, which he sealed and addressed.