brain so?  A thought he strove in vain for a time to grasp.  The meaning flashed upon him.  By a great effort he regained complete consciousness; mind alone seemed to be left to him, his body was dead.  Was he, then, really to be prevented from keeping his promise to Ida?  All the suffering of his previous life amassed was nothing to what Waymark endured during the successive quarters of this hour.  His brain burned:  his eyes had no power to gather the growing daylight.  That one name was his single perception; the sound of it, uttered incessantly in thought, alone seemed to keep him conscious.  He could feel something slightly warm on his cheeks, but did not know that it was the streaming of tears from his darkened eyes.  Then he lost consciousness once more.

The clock struck eight.

CHAPTER XXIX

FREEDOM

Mr. Woodstock was not so indifferent with regard to Waymark’s failure to bring the rents as the young man supposed.  Under ordinary circumstances he probably would have waited without any anxiety till the following day; already on a previous occasion Waymark had collected on Tuesday instead of Monday, though not without notice of his intention to do so.  But Mr. Woodstock had quite special reasons for wishing to see his agent before the following morning; he desired to assure himself once more that Waymark would not fail to be at the prison punctually.  When the afternoon passed without the usual visit, he grew uneasy; he was incapable of attending to matters of business, and walked up and down his office with impatient step.  Such a mood was extraordinary in Mr. Woodstock; he had often waxed restive in this or that business difficulty; was, indeed, anything but remarkable for equanimity under trial; but his state of mind was quite different at present, and exhibited itself in entirely different ways.  He neither swore nor looked black; his was the anxiety of a man who has some grave interest at stake wherein the better part of his nature is concerned.

At five o’clock he took a cab, and went off to Waymark’s lodgings in Chelsea.  Here he learned that Waymark had left home at the usual time, and had not yet returned.  Just as he was speaking with the landlady at the door, another gentleman came up on the same errand.  Mr. Woodstock remembered Julian Casti, and held out his hand to him.  Casti looked ill; his handsome features had wasted, and his fair complexion was turned to a dull, unhealthy, yellowish hue.  It was a comparatively warm day for the season, but his thin frame was closely muffled up, and still he seemed to be shrinking under the air.

“Have you any idea where he can be?” Mr. Woodstock asked, as they turned away together.

“None whatever.  I must see him to-night, though, if possible.”

“Ha!  And I too.”

As he spoke Mr. Woodstock looked at the other keenly, and something seemed to suggest itself to him.