“Do you know, or have you ever known, this family?” asked the other.

After a pause of more than a minute, during which the emotion subsided, he replied: 

“I have already said that I could not—­” he paused.  “I am not well,” said he; “I am quite feeble—­in fact, not in a condition to answer anything.  Do not, therefore, ask me—­for the present, at least.”

Fifteen or twenty minutes had elapsed before he succeeded in mastering this singular attack.  At length he rose, and placing his chair somewhat further back from the window, continued to look out in silence, not so much from love of silence, as apparently from inability to speak.  The stranger, in the mean time, eyed him keenly; and as he examined his features from time to time, it might be observed that an expression of satisfaction, if not almost of certainty, settled upon his own countenance.  In a quarter of an hour, the sound of the carriage-wheels was heard on its return, and Fenton, who seemed to dread also a return of his illness, said: 

“For heaven’s sake, sir, be good enough to raise the window and let in air.  Thank you, sir.”

The carriage, on this occasion, was proceeding more slowly than before—­in fact, owing to a slight acclivity in that part of the street, the horses were leisurely walking past the inn window at the moment the stranger raised it.  The noise of the ascending sash reached Miss Gourlay (for it was she), who, on looking up, crimsoned deeply, and, with one long taper finger on her lips, as if to intimate caution and silence, bowed to the stranger.  The latter, who had presence of mind enough to observe the hint, did not bow in return, and consequently declined to appropriate the compliment to himself.  Fenton now surveyed his companion with an appearance of as much interest and curiosity as the other had bestowed on him.  He felt, however, as if his physical powers were wholly prostrated.

“I am very weak,” said he, bitterly, “and near the close of my brief and unhappy day.  I have, however, one cure—­get me drink—­drink, I say; that is what will revive me.  Sir, my life, for the last fourteen years, has been a battle against thought; and without drink I should be a madman—­a madman! oh, God!”

The other remonstrated with him in vain; but he was inexorable, and began to get fierce and frantic.  At length, it occurred to him, that perhaps the influence of liquor might render this strange individual more communicative, and that by this means he might succeed in relieving himself of his doubts—­for he still had doubts touching Fenton’s identity.  In this, however, he was disappointed, as a circumstance occurred which prevented him from then gratifying Fenton’s wish, or winning him into confidence.

CHAPTER IV.  An Anonymous Letter

—­Lucy Gourlay avows a previous Attachment.