rch of Mr.
Whalley before he brought round Maitland's letters and his breakfast
commons.

There were no letters bearing on the subject of Margaret's
disappearance; if any such had been addressed to him, they would
necessarily be, as Maitland remembered after his first feeling of
disappointment, at his rooms in London. Neither Miss Marlett, if she had
aught to communicate, nor anyone else, could be expected to know that
Mait-land's first act would be to rush to Oxford and consult Bielby.

The guardian of Margaret turned with no success to his breakfast
commons; even tea appeared unwelcome and impossible.

Maitland felt very drowsy, dull, indifferent, when a knock came to his
door, and Mr. Whalley entered. He could not remember having sent for
him; but he felt that, as an invalid once said, "there was a pain
somewhere in the room," and he was feebly pleased to see his physician.

"A very bad feverish cold," was the verdict, and Mr. Whalley would call
again next day, till which time Maitland was forbidden to leave his
room.

He drowsed through the day, disturbed by occasional howls from the
quadrangle, where the men were snowballing a little, and, later, by the
scraping shovels of the navvies who had been sent in to remove the snow,
and with it the efficient cause of nocturnal disorders in St. Gatien's.

So the time passed, Maitland not being quite conscious of its passage,
and each hour putting Margaret Shields more and more beyond the reach
of the very few people who were interested in her existence. Maitland's
illness took a more severe form than Whalley had anticipated, and the
lungs were affected. Bielby was informed of his state, and came to see
him; but Maitland talked so wildly about the _Hit or Miss_, about the
man in the bearskin coat, and other unintelligible matters, that the
hermit soon withdrew to the more comprehensible fragments of "Demetrius
of Scepsis." He visited his old pupil daily, and behaved with real
kindness; but the old implicit trust never revived with Maitland's
returning health.

At last the fever abated. Maitland felt weak, yet perfectly conscious of
what had passed, and doubly anxious about what was to be done, if there
was, indeed, a chance of doing anything.

Men of his own standing had by this time become aware that he was in
Oxford, and sick, consequently there was always someone to look after
him.

"Brown," said Maitland to a friend, on the fifth day after his illness
began,