sisted it was Miss Bruce, but even _through_ that
delirium he knew he must be raving, and it was impossible. Could that
be a part of his dream, too, in which he dragged himself out of bed,
to dress in his own clothes, laid out on the chair that had hitherto
carried a basin of gruel or a jug of cooling drink? No, it must have
been reality surely, for even to-day he has so vivid a remembrance of
the fresh air, the blinding sunshine, and the homely life-like look of
that four-wheeled cab waiting in the narrow street, which he entered
mechanically, which _as_ mechanically brought him home to his uncle's
house, the man asking no questions, nor stopping to receive his fare.
To be sure, he fainted from utter weakness at the door. Of that he
is satisfied, for he remembers nothing between the jolting of those
slippery cushions and another bed in which he found himself, with a
grave doctor watching over him, and which he recognised, doubtfully,
as his own.

Gradually, with returning strength, Tom began to suspect the truth
that he had been hocussed and robbed. His pockets, when he resumed
his clothes, were empty. Their only contents, his cigar-case and Miss
Bruce's letter, were gone. The motive for so desperate an attack he
felt unable to fathom. His intellect was still affected by bodily
weakness, and he inclined at first to think he had been mistaken for
somebody else. The real truth only dawned on him by degrees. Its first
ray originated with no less brilliant a luminary than old Bargrave.

To do him justice, the uncle had shown far more natural affection than
his household had hitherto believed him capable of feeling. During
his nephew's absence, he had been like one distracted, and the large
reward offered for discovery of the missing gentleman sufficiently
testified his anxiety and alarm. When Tom did return, more dead than
alive, Bargrave hurried off in person to procure the best medical
advice, and postponing inquiry into his wrongs to the more immediate
necessity of nursing the sufferer, spent six or seven hours out of the
twenty-four at the sick man's bedside.

The first day Tom could sit up his uncle thought well to enliven him
with a little news, social, general, and professional. Having told
him that he had outbid Mortlake for the last batch of poor Mr.
Chalkstone's port, and stated, at some length, his reasons for
doubting the stability of Government, he entered gleefully upon
congenial topics, and proceeded to g