Was it not his duty to give the little one so sweet and strong a mother? Again he consulted the stars. He had reached a set of workmen's cottages in process of erection, on either side of the road, which marked the beginning of the town. The moonlight beat hard upon them, showing up vividly their windowless and doorless skeletons and the piles of bricks, mortar, and lime-covered boards at their thresholds. He had passed the first block and was about to traverse a cross-road that led to the railway station, when a dog-cart containing two men and some luggage turned out of it sharply on to the highway. Before he could realise the fact, the vehicle suddenly lurched, the horse plunged, and in a moment the occupants were thrown heavily on to the road. Sylvester could see at once the cause of the mishap. A pail of mortar left by the roadside, either through carelessness or urchin mischief, had caught the wheel. He ran forward. One of the men, the driver, rose, and shaking himself went to the horse's head, which was turned round in calm inquiry. The other man lay still. “Hurt?” cried Sylvester. “No, doctor,” replied the driver, who belonged to the George Hotel of Ayresford. “The gentleman may be.” He left the pacific animal, and bent with Sylvester over the prostrate form. It was that of a handsome, full-blooded man in the prime of life. He had fair hair and a great moustache. His face gleamed very white beneath the moon, and his eyes were glassy. The driver supported his head, while Sylvester straightened the inert body, which had remained huddled together after the fall, wrapped in a disordered Inverness cape. Apparently no bones were broken. Sylvester felt his pulse, which was just perceptible. Then suddenly he viewed the man's face full, and started back in amazed distress. “Good heavens! it's Frank Leroux!” “That's the gentleman's name, sir,” said the driver. “How do you know?” “He telegraphed from London for a bed to-night, saying that he was to be met by the last train, which I just did, sir.” “But he's my oldest friend,” exclaimed Sylvester. “Leave him to me and see if the trap is all right. Bring the cushions for his head.” He pursued his investigations. Leroux was alive. A trickle of blood damped his hair. After a while Sylvester drew an anxious breath. It was a severe concussion; how grave he could not for the moment estimate. To drive him in the narrow two-wheeled cart was out of the question. He hailed the driver, who had righted the vehicle. “Get a ambulance as quick as you can from the Infirm. That's nearest.”