No wonder he tossed and tumbled on his bed, and raised his fever, and inflamed his wounds, and protracted his recovery, and in other ways gave his surgeon a world of trouble. But with all, as he had a magnificent constitution,—if that is not too big a word to apply to a little human organism,—he continued to convalesce. One day he was permitted to sit up in bed for a few moments, and he felt himself much refreshed by the change of posture. The next day he sat up a little longer, with increased advantage. At length there came a day when the patient was so much better that the surgeon ventured to leave him in the care of the valet and of the people of the hotel, and to go for a holiday to the neighboring town of St. Helier’s. That day Alexander sat up in bed, well propped up with pillows, and waited on by Simms. The valet had trimmed him up nicely, and, at his request, had placed a small glass in his hands that he might look at his face. And a very pale, thin, haggard, cadaverous countenance it was to contemplate. And the clean-shaved chin and the short-cropped hair added nothing to its attractions. “By my life! I look more like a newly-discharged convict than a decent citizen or anything else,” muttered Alexander to himself as he handed back the glass. “Any more orders, sir?” inquired the valet. “No—yes; now that Dietz is off for a holiday, I will take some recreation too, in my own way—Simms!” “Yes, sir.” “Do you know whether they keep the files of the London papers here in the house?” “I can inquire, sir.” “Do so.” The valet left the room, and, after an absence of a few minutes, returned with a pile of newspapers in his hands. “Here is a file of the Times for the last month, sir,” he said. “Lay them on the foot of the bed where I can reach them, and slip off the first one and give it to me.” “Here it is, sir. It is the twenty-seventh.” “That is day before yesterday’s. Is there not a later one?” “No, sir; perhaps——” “Well?” “Perhaps it is in the reading-room, sir. It must have come by the last boat—yesterday’s Times must, I mean, sir. They tell me they always get it the day after publication. Shall I go and see if I can find it, sir?” “Yes—no,” said Alexander, quickly changing his mind from one purpose to another, as is often the case with convalescents, and less from caprice or irresolution than from a momentary forgetfulness of what they really do want. “No,” he repeated, suddenly remembering that he wished to ascertain whether any unpleasant notice had been taken of his foolish duel by the press. “No—I—you needn’t go after the late paper just yet. I have been laid down here nearly a month, and have fallen so far behind the world’s news that I must go back and post myself up. I will begin with the paper following the one I left off with; and I will glance over them all in turns to see what the world has been doing while I have been lying here. Give me the paper of the date of the second of June.”