On the night of the 2d of December, Mr. Bashwood took up his post of observation at the terminus of the South-eastern Railway for the first time. It was an earlier date, by six days, than the date which Allan had himself fixed for his return. But the doctor, taking counsel of his medical experience, had considered it just probable that “Mr. Armadale might be perverse enough, at his enviable age, to recover sooner than his medical advisers might have anticipated.” For caution’s sake, therefore, Mr. Bashwood was instructed to begin watching the arrival of the tidal trains on the day after he had received his employer’s letter.

From the 2d to the 7th of December, the steward waited punctually on the platform, saw the trains come in, and satisfied himself, evening after evening, that the travelers were all strangers to him. From the 2d to the 7th of December, Miss Gwilt (to return to the name under which she is best known in these pages) received his daily report, sometimes delivered personally, sometimes sent by letter. The doctor, to whom the reports were communicated, received them in his turn with unabated confidence in the precautions that had been adopted up to the morning of the 8th. On that date the irritation of continued suspense had produced a change for the worse in Miss Gwilt’s variable temper, which was perceptible to every one about her, and which, strangely enough, was reflected by an equally marked change in the doctor’s manner when he came to pay his usual visit. By a coincidence so extraordinary that his enemies might have suspected it of not being a coincidence at all, the morning on which Miss Gwilt lost her patience proved to be also the morning on which the doctor lost his confidence for the first time.

“No news, of course,” he said, sitting down with a heavy sigh. “Well! well!”

Miss Gwilt looked up at him irritably from her work.

“You seem strangely depressed this morning,” she said. “What are you afraid of now?”

“The imputation of being afraid, madam,” answered the doctor, solemnly, “is not an imputation to cast rashly on any man — even when he belongs to such an essentially peaceful profession as mine. I am not afraid. I am (as you more correctly put it in the first instance) strangely depressed. My nature is, as you know, naturally sanguine, and I only see to-day what but for my habitual hopefulness I might have seen, and ought to have seen, a week since.”

Miss Gwilt impatiently threw down her work. “If words cost money,” she said, “the luxury of talking would be rather an expensive luxury in your case!”

“Which I might have seen, and ought to have seen,” reiterated the doctor, without taking the slightest notice of the interruption, “a week since. To put it plainly, I feel by no means so certain as I did that Mr. Armadale will consent, without a struggle, to the terms which it is my interest (and in a minor degree yours) to impose on him. Observe! I don’t question our entrapping him successfully into the Sanitarium: I only doubt whether he will prove quite as manageable as I originally anticipated when we have got him there. Say,” remarked the doctor, raising his eyes for the first time, and fixing them in steady inquiry on Miss Gwilt —“say that he is bold, obstinate, what you please; and that he holds out — holds out for weeks together, for months together, as men in similar situations to his have held out before him. What follows? The risk of keeping him forcibly in concealment — of suppressing him, if I may so express myself — increases at compound interest, and becomes Enormous! My house is at this moment virtually ready for patients. Patients may present themselves in a week’s time. Patients may communicate with Mr. Armadale, or Mr. Armadale may communicate with patients. A note may be smuggled out of the house, and may reach the Commissioners in Lunacy. Even in the case of an unlicensed establishment like mine, those gentlemen — no! those chartered despots in a land of liberty — have only to apply to the Lord Chancellor for an order, and to enter (by heavens, to enter My Sanitarium!) and search the house from top to bottom at a moment’s notice! I don’t wish to despond; I don’t wish to alarm you; I don’t pretend to say that the means we are taking to secure your own safety are any other than the best means at our disposal. All I ask you to do is to imagine the Commissioners in the house — and then to conceive the consequences. The consequences!” repeated the doctor, getting sternly on his feet, and taking up his hat as if he meant to leave the room.

“Have you anything more to say?” asked Miss Gwilt.

“Have you any remarks,” rejoined the doctor, “to offer on your side?”

He stood, hat in hand, waiting. For a full minute the two looked at each other in silence.

Miss Gwilt spoke first.

“I think I understand you,” she said, suddenly recovering her composure.

“I beg your pardon,” returned the doctor, with his hand to his ear. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“If you happened to catch another fly this morning,” said Miss Gwilt, with a bitterly sarcastic emphasis on the words, “I might be capable of shocking you by another ‘little joke.’”

The doctor held up both hands, in polite deprecation, and looked as if he was beginning to recover his good humor again.

“Hard,” he murmured, gently, “not to have forgiven me that unlucky blunder of mine, even yet!”

“What else have you to say? I am waiting for you,” said Miss Gwilt. She turned her chair to the window scornfully, and took up her work again, as she spoke.

The doctor came behind her, and put his hand on the back of her chair.

“I have a question to ask, in the first place,” he said; “and a measure of necessary precaution to suggest, in the second. If you will honor me with your attention, I will put the question first.”

“I am listening.”

“You know that Mr. Armadale is alive,” pursued the doctor, “and you know that he is coming back to England. Why do you continue to wear your widow’s dress?”

She answered him without an instant’s hesitation, steadily going on with her work.

“Because I am of a sanguine disposition, like you. I mean to trust to the chapter of accidents to the very last. Mr. Armadale may die yet, on his way home.”

“And suppose he gets home alive — what then?”

“Then there is another chance still left.”

“What is it, pray?”

“He may die in your Sanitarium.”

“Madam!” remonstrated the doctor, in the deep bass which he reserved for his outbursts of virtuous indignation. “Wait! you spoke of the chapter of accidents,” he resumed, gliding back into his softer conversational tones. “Yes! yes! of course. I understand you this time. Even the healing art is at the mercy of accidents; even such a Sa............