"Still he has the worst of it," suggested Fred, who was not altogether pleased with the cold selfishness of his companion. "Yes, I suppose so; but it isn't right that I should suffer for his misfortune." "Do you employ a doctor?" "Yes; I called in a doctor once--a Frenchman--Dr. St. Hilaire. He left some medicines, and Sinclair takes them." "He doesn't seem to get better, then?" "At any rate he is very slow about it," said Bowman, who spoke as if his unfortunate friend were in fault. At last they reached the cottage. It was very small, containing three rooms and an attic. Bowman opened the door, and entered what might perhaps be designated as the sitting-room, though it contained a bed, on which, propped up by pillows, lay James Sinclair. "What's amiss with you, Sinclair?" grumbled Bowman. "Everything is amiss. You have left me alone all day." "What good could I do you if I were here? It would only mope me to death." "I have had nothing to eat since morning, except a boiled egg." "Why not? Couldn't you send Claudine after food?" "Of what use would that be, when I had no money to give her? I warrant you have had your regular meals." "I took my meals at the hotel--it was more convenient." "I warrant me you took care to provide for yourself. At least give me some money so that I may not quite starve." "Money, money, all the time! Do you know, Sinclair, our stock is running very low?" "I demand my share of it as long as it lasts. You take advantage of my helplessness----" "There's a dollar! Mind you make it last as long as possible," said Bowman. "It will be well to put off your complaints till another time, for I have brought company." He signaled to Fred, who had remained outside, to enter, and the boy did so. He regarded the sick man with interest and sympathy, not alone because he seemed in sorry plight, and ill treated by his companion in crime, but also because he was clearly the less guilty of the two, and seemed disposed to make amends to the man whom he had wronged. James Sinclair, unprepared for the advent of a boy, regarded him with surprise. "Who is this?" he asked. "My name is Fred Fenton," answered the train boy, remembering that Bowman was as yet ignorant of his name. "He is a guest at the inn," explained Bowman carelessly. "He arrived to-night. He will be some company for me in this dull hole. We were playing a game of billiards when Claudine broke in and told me you wanted to see me. I expected to find you at the point of death," he finished impatiently. "That may come sooner than you think," said Sinclair. "May I ask where you come from, young man?" he added, in a tone of suppressed eagerness which Fred well understood. "I come from New York," answered the boy, trying to throw a degree of significance into this brief answer. "From New York!" said Sinclair, in some excitement, and trying to read in Fred's face whether he was the expected messenger. "You have come for your health, I suppose?"