Then a fresh apprehension assailed me.  Suppose Bellairs had given me the slip? suppose he was now rolling on the road to Stallbridge-le-Carthew? or perhaps there already and laying before a very white-faced auditor his threats and propositions?  A hasty person might have instantly pursued.  Whatever I am, I am not hasty, and I was aware of three grave objections.  In the first place, I could not be certain that Bellairs was gone.  In the second, I had no taste whatever for a long drive at that hour of the night and in so merciless a rain.  In the third, I had no idea how I was to get admitted if I went, and no idea what I should say if I got admitted.  “In short,” I concluded, “the whole situation is the merest farce.  You have thrust yourself in where you had no business and have no power.  You would be quite as useful in San Francisco; far happier in Paris; and being (by the wrath of God) at Stallbridge-Minster, the wisest thing is to go quietly to bed.”  On the way to my room, I saw (in a flash) that which I ought to have done long ago, and which it was now too late to think of—­written to Carthew, I mean, detailing the facts and describing Bellairs, letting him defend himself if he were able, and giving him time to flee if he were not.  It was the last blow to my self-respect; and I flung myself into my bed with contumely.

I have no guess what hour it was, when I was wakened by the entrance of Bellairs carrying a candle.  He had been drunk, for he was bedaubed with mire from head to foot; but he was now sober and under the empire of some violent emotion which he controlled with difficulty.  He trembled visibly; and more than once, during the interview which followed, tears suddenly and silently overflowed his cheeks.

“I have to ask your pardon, sir, for this untimely visit,” he said.  “I make no defence, I have no excuse, I have disgraced myself, I am properly punished; I appear before you to appeal to you in mercy for the most trifling aid or, God help me!  I fear I may go mad.”

“What on earth is wrong?” I asked.

“I have been robbed,” he said.  “I have no defence to offer; it was of my own fault, I am properly punished.”

“But, gracious goodness me!” I cried, “who is there to rob you in a place like this?”

“I can form no opinion,” he replied.  “I have no idea.  I was lying in a ditch inanimate.  This is a degrading confession, sir; I can only say in self-defence that perhaps (in your good nature) you have made yourself partly responsible for my shame.  I am not used to these rich wines.”

“In what form was your money?  Perhaps it may be traced,” I suggested.

“It was in English sovereigns.  I changed it in New York; I got very good exchange,” he said, and then, with a momentary outbreak, “God in heaven, how I toiled for it!” he cried.

“That doesn’t sound encouraging,” said I.  “It may be worth while to apply to the police, but it doesn’t sound a hopeful case.”