So friendship was at an end between those two, and that was all; it was only the utter severance of a tie that had lasted for years, nothing more.  Yet to Gilbert it seemed a great deal.  His little world had crumbled to ashes; love had perished, and now friendship had died this sudden bitter death, from which there was no possible resurrection.

In the midst of such thoughts as these he remembered the sick man’s medicine.  Mrs. Pratt had given him a few hurried directions before departing on her errand.  He looked at his watch, and then went over to the table and prepared the draught and administered it with a firm and gentle hand.

“Who’s that?” John Saltram muttered faintly.  “It seems like the touch of a friend.”

He dropped back upon the pillow without waiting for any reply, and fell into a string of low incoherent talk, with closed eyes.

The laundress was a long time gone, and Gilbert sat alone in the dismal little bedroom, where there had never been the smallest attempt at comfort since John Saltram had occupied it.  He sat alone, or with that awful companionship of one whose mind was far away, which was so much more dreary than actual loneliness—­sat brooding over the history of his friend’s treachery.

What had he done with Marian?  Was her disappearance any work of his, after all?  Had he hidden her away for some secret reason of his own, and then acted out the play by pretending to search for her?  Knowing him for the traitor he was, could Gilbert Fenton draw any positive line of demarcation between the amount of guilt which was possible and that which was not possible to him?

What had he done with Marian?  How soon would he be able to answer that question? or would he ever be able to answer it?  The thought of this delay was torture to Gilbert Fenton.  He had come here to-day thinking to make an end of all his doubts, to force an avowal of the truth from those false lips.  And behold, a hand stronger than his held him back.  His interrogation must await the answer to that awful question—­life or death.

The woman came in presently, bustling and out of breath.  She had found a very trustworthy person, recommended by Mr. Mew’s assistant—­a person who would come that evening without fail.

“It was all the way up at Islington, sir, and I paid the cabman three-and-six altogether, which he said it were his fare.  And how has the poor dear been while I was away?” asked Mrs. Pratt, with her head on one side and an air of extreme solicitude.

“Very much as you see him now.  He has mentioned a name once or twice, the name of Marian.  Have you ever heard that?”

“I should say I have, sir, times and often since he’s been ill.  ’Marian, why don’t you come to me?’ so pitiful; and then, ‘Lost, lost!’ in such a awful wild way.  I think it must be some favourite sister, sir, or a young lady as he has kep’ company with.”

“Marian!” cried the voice from the bed, as if their cautious talk had penetrated to that dim brain.  “Marian!  O no, no; she is gone; I have lost her!  Well, I wished it; I wanted my freedom.”