hen things went from bad to worse
with him, and he had a run of ill-luck.

"It seems he is an artist and rather fond of his profession, but he
hurt his hand, and blood-poisoning came on, and for some time he was
afraid he would lose his right arm; for months he could paint no
pictures, and so all his little capital was swallowed up."

"But why did he not write to his people, Marcus, and make it up with
them?"

"So he did, but his letters never got answered, and he got sick of it
at last. When he was pretty nearly at the end of his tether he came
back to England. I think he said he was in Paris then, or was it
Beyrout? well, never mind, he went straight to his old home; but to his
horror the house was shut up, and to let, and the caretaker told him
that no one had lived there for years, and that she believed the party
who had owned it was abroad; he could get nothing more than that out of
her.

"He put up at a little wayside inn that night, meaning to make
inquiries in the neighbourhood, but the next day he fell ill, and after
a bit they took him to the hospital, and since then he drifted up to
London, hoping to see his father's old lawyer and glean intelligence
from him, but he found he was dead. His fixed intention was to go down
again to the place and see the vicar and prosecute his inquiries in
person, but ill-luck pursued him; he was robbed in some wretched
lodging, and soon found himself in actual want; 'but I mean, if I die
for it, to get to Medhurst somehow,' he said to me. 'I could have
found someone to identify me there; not that we had been there long,
for my people mostly lived abroad, but there must be some friends who
could tell me about them.'

"It is a queer story altogether, and yet not a wholly improbable one;
but there is a mystery somewhere, Livy, and I am sure of one thing,
that his name is not Barton. I hinted as much, but he only flushed up
and said nothing."

CHAPTER XI.

THE NIGHT-BELL RINGS.

"A bad beginning leads to a bad ending."--_Livy_.

The next few days passed quietly. Dr. Luttrell professed himself
perfectly satisfied with his patient's progress. In spite of his
delicate aspect, and the terrible hardships he had experienced, Robert
Barton proved that he had a fair amount of recuperative power. Perhaps
his youth was in his favour, and it was soon evident that he had a
naturally sanguine temperament. His nature was singularly
ill-balanced, he was always in ext