g Mr. Bashwood's head, and
loosening his cravat. "A nice morning's work. Upon my soul, a nice
morning's work!"

The hospital was near, and the house surgeon was at his post.

"Will he come out of it?" asked Bashwood the younger, roughly.

"Who are _you_?" asked the surgeon, sharply, on his side.

"I am his son."

"I shouldn't have thought it," rejoined the surgeon, taking the
restoratives that were handed to him by the nurse, and turning from
the son to the father with an air of relief which he was at no pains to
conceal. "Yes," he added, after a minute or two; "your father will come
out of it this time."

"When can he be moved away from here?"

"He can be moved from the hospital in an hour or two."

The spy laid a card on the table. "I'll come back for him or send for
him," he said. "I suppose I can go now, if I leave my name and address?"
With those words, he put on his hat, and walked out.

"He's a brute!" said the nurse.

"No," said the surgeon, quietly. "He's a man."

* * * * * * *

Between nine and ten o'clock that night, Mr. Bashwood awoke in his bed
at the inn in the Borough. He had slept for some hours since he had been
brought back from the hospital; and his mind and body were now slowly
recovering together.

A light was burning on the bedside table, and a letter lay on it,
waiting for him till he was awake. It was in his son's handwriting, and
it contained these words:

"MY DEAR DAD--Having seen you safe out of the hospital, and back at your
hotel, I think I may fairly claim to have done my duty by you, and may
consider myself free to look after my own affairs. Business will prevent
me from seeing you to-night; and I don't think it at all likely I shall
be in your neighborhood to-morrow morning. My advice to you is to go
back to Thorpe Ambrose, and to stick to your employment in the steward's
office. Wherever Mr. Armadale may be, he must, sooner or later, write to
you on business. I wash my hands of the whole matter, mind, so far as I
am concerned, from this time forth. But if _you_ like to go on with it,
my professional opinion is (though you couldn't hinder his marriage),
you may part him from his wife.

"Pray take care of yourself.

"Your affectionate son,

"JAMES BASHWOOD."

The letter dropped from the old man's feeble hands. "I wish Jemmy could
have come to see me to-night," he thought. "But it's very kind of him to
advise me, all the same."

He turned wearily on the pillow, a