"My young friend, this gives me sincere
pleasure; not on my account, but on your own.
There goes one of your illusions then. Now tell
me—the £14,000.! Have you calmly reconsidered
that too?"

Alfred hung his head, and looked guiltier and
guiltier.

"Why," said he, "that never amounted to
anything more than a strong suspicion. It has
long ceased to occupy my mind in excess.
However, should I ever be so fortunate as to recover
my liberty, I have no objection to collect the
evidence about it pro and con., and then make you
the judge instead of myself." This he delivered
with an admirable appearance of indifference.

"Very well, sir," said the doctor drily. " Then,
now, I have a piece of good news for you."

"Oh, doctor, what is that?"

"Your cure is complete; that is all! You are
now a sane man, as sane as I am."

Alfred was a little disappointed at this piece of
news; but recovering himself, asked him to
certify that, and let him send the certificate to the
Board. Dr. Wycherley said he would, with
pleasure.

"I'll bring it to you when I make my round,"
said he.

Alfred retired triumphant, and went in at Plato
with a good heart.

In about an hour Dr. Wycherley paid him the
promised visit. But what may not an hour bring
forth? He came with mortification and regret
in his face to tell Alfred that an order of transfer
had been signed by the proper parties, and
countersigned by two Commissioners, and he was to
go to Dr. Wolf's asylum that day.

Alfred groaned. "I knew my father would
outwit my feeble friends somehow or other,"
said he. "What is his game? do you know?"

"I suppose to obtain a delay; and meantime
get you into an asylum, where they will tell the
Commissioners you are worse again, and perhaps
do something to make their words good. Dr.
Wolf, between ourselves, will say or do almost
anything for money. And his asylum is conducted
on the old system; though he pretends not."

"My dear friend," said Alfred, "will you do
me a favour?"

"How could I deny you anything at this
sorrowful moment?"

"Here is an advertisement I want inserted in
the Morning Advertiser."

"Oh, I can't do that, I fear."

"Look at it before you break my heart by
refusing me."

Dr. Wycherley looked at it, and said it was
innocent, being unintelligible: and he would
insert it himself.

"Three insertions, dear doctor," said Alfred.
"Here is the money."

The doctor then told him sorrowfully he must
pack up his things. Dr. Wolf's keepers were
waiting for him.

The moment of parting came. Then Alfred
solemnly forgave Dr. Wycherley for signing
away his wits, and thanked him for all his
kindness and humanity. "We shall never meet
again, I fear," said he; "I feel a weight of
foreboding here about my heart I never felt
before; yet my trials have been many and great.
I think the end is at hand." Dr. Wolf's keepers
received him, and their first act was to handcuff
him. The cold steel struck into him deeper
than his wrist, and reminded him of Silverton
Grove; he could not suppress a shudder. The
carriage rolled all through London with him.
He saw the Parks with autumn's brown and
golden tints: he saw the people, some rich, some
poor, but none of them prisoners. He saw a
little girl all rags. " Oh, if I could be as ragged
as you are," he said, " and free."

At last they reached Drayton House: a huge
old mansion, fortified into a jail. His handcuifs
were whipped off in the yard. He was ushered
into a large, gloomy drawing-room. Dr. Wolf
soon came to him, and they measured each other
by the eye like two prize-fighters. Dr. Wolf's
eye fell under Alfred's, and the latter felt he was
capable of much foul play. He was one of the
old bull-necked breed; and contained the
dog and the spaniel in his single nature. "I
hope you will be comfortable here, sir," said he,
doggedly.

"I will try, sir."

"The first class patients dine in half an hour."

"I will be ready, sir."

"Full dress in the evening; there are several
ladies." Alfred assented by a bow. Dr. Wolf
rang a bell, and told a servant to show Mr.
Hardie his room.

He had just time to make his toilet when the
bell rang for dinner.

As he went down a nurse met him, held up
something white to him as she came, lowered it
quickly, and dropped it at his feet in passing.

It was a billet-doux.

It was twisted into a pretty shape, scented,
and addressed to Mr. Hardie, in a delicate
Italian hand, and in that pale ink which seems
to reflect the charming timidity of the fair who
use it.

He wondered; carried it into a recess; then
opened it and read it.

It contained but this one line:

"Drink nothing but water at dinner."

These words in that delicate Italian hand sent
a chill through Alfred. What on earth was all
this? Was he to be poisoned? Was his life
aimed at now instead of his reason? What was
this mysterious drama prepared for him the very
moment he set his foot in the place, perhaps
before? A poisoner, and a friend! Both strangers.
He went down to dinner: and contrived to
examine every lady and gentleman at the table. But
they were all strangers. Presently a servant
filled his glass with beer; he looked and saw it
was poured from a small jug holding only his
portion. Alfred took his ring off his finger, and
holding the glass up dropped his ring in.