“Miserable ass!” thought Tom, “if he don’t see innocence in that man’s countenance, he wouldn’t see it in his own child’s.”

Elsley suddenly turned his back to them, and thrust his hand into his bosom.  Now was Tom’s turn.

In a moment he had vaulted over the table, and seized Elsley’s wrist, ere he could draw the second pistol.

“No, my dear Jack,” whispered he quietly, “once is enough in a day!”

“Not for him, Tom, for myself!” moaned Elsley.

“For neither, dear lad!  Let bygones be bygones, and do you be a new man, and go home to Mrs. Vavasour.”

“Never, never, never, never, never, never!” shrieked Elsley like a baby, every word increasing in intensity, till the whole house rang; and then threw himself into the crazy chair, and dashed his head between his hands upon the table.

“This is a case for me, Major Campbell.  I think you had better go now.”

“You will not leave him?”

“No, sir.  It is a very curious psychological study, and he is a Whitbury man.”

Campbell knew quite enough of the would-be cynical doctor, to understand what all that meant.  He came up to Elsley.

“Mr. Vavasour, I am going to the war, from which I expect never to return.  If you believe me, give me your hand before I go.”

Elsley, without lifting his head, beat on the table with his hand.

“I wish to die at peace with you and all the world.  I am innocent in word, in thought.  I shall not insult another person by saying that she is so.  If you believe me, give me your hand.”

Elsley stretched his hand, his head still buried.  Campbell took it, and went silently downstairs.

“Is he gone?” moaned he, after a while.

“Yes.”

“Does she—­does she care for him?”

“Good heavens!  How did you ever dream such an absurdity?”

Elsley only beat upon the table.

“She has been ill?”

“Is ill.  She has lost her child.”

“Which?” shrieked Elsley.

“A boy whom she should have had.”

Elsley only beat on the table; then—­

“Give me the bottle, Tom!”

“What bottle?”

“The laudanum;—­there in the cupboard.”

“I shall do no such thing.  You are poisoning yourself.”

“Let me then!  I must, I tell you!  I can live on nothing else.  I shall go mad if I do not have it.  I should have been mad by now.  Nothing else keeps off these fits;—­I feel one coming now.  Curse you! give me the bottle!”

“What fits?”

“How do I know?  Agony and torture—­ever since I got wet on that mountain.”

Tom knew enough to guess his meaning, and felt Elsley’s pulse and forehead.

“I tell you it turns every bone to red-hot iron!” almost screamed he.

“Neuralgia; rheumatic, I suppose,” said Tom to himself.  “Well, this is not the thing to cure you:  but you shall have it to keep you quiet.”  And he measured him out a small dose.