Roger was not long in guessing quite accurately how he stood in her thoughts, and he was often much depressed.  As he had said to Clara Bute, he had a downright dislike to contend against, and this might not change with his success.  And now it was his misfortune to become associated in her mind with another painful event—­perhaps a fatal one.  She might thank him sincerely for his kindness and the trouble he had taken in their behalf, but, all the same, deep in her heart, the old aversion would be strengthened.

“That invertebrate, Arnold,” he muttered, “represents to her the old, happy life; I, her present life, and it’s my luck always to appear when things are at their worst.  After to-night she will shudder with apprehension whenever she sees me.  What will become of them if Mr. Jocelyn dies!”

Full of forebodings and distress at the shock and sorrow impending over those in whom he was so deeply interested, he and the physician placed Mr. Jocelyn in a covered express wagon that was improvised into an ambulance, and drove up town as rapidly as they dared.

In response to a low knock Mrs. Jocelyn opened the door, and the white, troubled face of Roger announced evil tidings before a word was spoken.

“My husband!” she gasped, sinking into a chair.

The young man knelt beside her and said, “Mrs. Jocelyn, his life may depend on your courage and fortitude.”

He had touched the right chord, and, after a momentary and half-convulsive sob, she rose quietly, and said, “Tell me what to do—­tell me the worst.”

“I have brought him with me, and I have a physician also.  I found him on a steamer, by accident.  They were about to send him to a hospital, but I was sure you would want him brought home.”

“Oh, yes—­God bless you—­bring him, bring him quick.”

“Courage.  Good nursing will prevent the worst.”

Roger hastened back to the patient, stopping on the way only long enough to ask Mrs. Wheaton to go to Mrs. Jocelyn’s room instantly, and then, with the physician’s aid, he carried the unconscious man to his room, and laid him on his bed.

“Oh, Martin!  Martin!” moaned the wife, “how changed, how changed!  Oh, God! he’s dying.”

“I hope not, madam,” said the physician; “at any rate we must all keep our self-possession and do our best.  While there is life there is hope.”

With dilated eyes, and almost fierce repression of all aid from other hands, she took the clothing from the limp and wasted form.

“He is dying,” she moaned; “see how unnatural his eyes are; the pupils are almost gone.  Oh, God! why did I let him go from me when he was so ill!”

“Would you not like Belle and Miss Mildred summoned at once?” Roger asked.

“Yes, yes, they ought to be here now; every moment may be precious, and he may become conscious.”

“At the same time I would like you to call on Dr. Benton in Twenty-third Street,” added the physician.  “He is a friend of mine, and has had much experience.  In so serious a case I would like to consult him.”