I was aware of that without her telling me. I could not see how it could be otherwise, suffering as I was suffering then. If ever there was an object of pity, I felt that I was one. But there did not seem to be much pity either in her voice, words, or manner. I said nothing in reply to her remark. I only groaned. "Will you have your breakfast in bed?" "I don't want any breakfast, thank you." "Shall I send for Dr. Ferguson? Though I don't know if he is an authority on dipsomania." "Lucy! don't talk to me like that!" "Why not? I merely made a statement of fact. And, of course, you are suffering from the after effects of overindulgence." That was a charming fashion in which to endeavour to smooth the pillow of an invalid. I changed the subject. "How is Minna?" Minna is my little girl--a little fair-haired darling she is. With all her father's tender-heartedness; more--with, I hope, some of that father's power of forgiving injuries. "I am going to send her away to-day." "Send her away?" "Certainly. I have not yet made up my mind whether I shall go with her myself or send nurse with her alone. Are you well enough to enter into a discussion?" "No," I said; "I'm not." Nor was I. At that moment I was neither mentally nor physically her equal. Since, at any time, Lucy has about nine-parts of speech to my one, I had no intention of measuring myself against her, conversationally and argumentatively, when I had none. I was ill four days. So ill that I could not leave my bed. At least, I was clear upon that point, if no one else was. I am almost inclined to suspect that Lucy had her doubts; or she pretended to have them. I am disposed to believe that she would not have allowed me to have stayed in bed at all if she had had her way. She threw out hints about the necessity of attending to matters in the City; though I explained to her, as clearly as my illness would permit me, that in the City things were absolutely stagnant. Then she dropped hints upon more delicate subjects still; but to these I resolutely turned a deaf ear. I vowed that I was too ill to listen. However, on the afternoon of the fourth day things reached a climax. Facts became too strong for me. I had to listen. Lucy came into the room with an envelope in her hand. "There is some one who wishes to see you." I supposed it was Parker, my senior clerk. He had been backwards and forwards bothering me two or three times a day. "Is it Parker?" "No. It is a stranger to me. I believe you will find his name in that envelope. He would not give it me." I opened the envelope which she handed to me. It contained half a sheet of paper, on which was written, "The gentleman who travelled in the next compartment to yours." At sight of those words I sat up in bed--rather hurriedly, I fancy. "Good gracious!" I exclaimed; "where is he? I hope you haven't let him in." "Jane let him in. At present he is in the drawing-room waiting to see you." "It's that blackmailing ruffian."