CHAPTER XXX.
STRICKEN DOWN.
A hansom carried Gilbert Fenton to the Temple, without loss of time.
There was a fierce hurry in his breast, a heat and fever which he had scarcely felt since the beginning of his troubles; for his lurking suspicion of his friend had gathered shape and strength all at once, and possessed his mind now to the exclusion of every other thought.
He ran quickly up the stairs.

The outer and inner doors of John Saltram's chambers were both ajar.

Gilbert pushed them open and went in.

The familiar sitting-room looked just a little more dreary than usual.

The litter of books and papers, ink-stand and portfolio, was transferred to one of the side-tables, and in its place, on the table where his friend had been accustomed to write, Gilbert saw a cluster of medicine-bottles, a jug of toast-and-water, and a tray with a basin of lukewarm greasy-looking beef-tea.
The door between the two rooms stood half open, and from the bedchamber within Gilbert heard the heavy painful breathing of a sleeper.