His little world had crumbled to ashes; love had perished, and now friendship had died this sudden bitter death, from which there was no possible resurrection.
In the midst of such thoughts as these he remembered the sick man's medicine.

Mrs.Pratt had given him a few hurried directions before departing on her errand.

He looked at his watch, and then went over to the table and prepared the draught and administered it with a firm and gentle hand.
"Who's that ?" John Saltram muttered faintly.

"It seems like the touch of a friend." He dropped back upon the pillow without waiting for any reply, and fell into a string of low incoherent talk, with closed eyes.
The laundress was a long time gone, and Gilbert sat alone in the dismal little bedroom, where there had never been the smallest attempt at comfort since John Saltram had occupied it.

He sat alone, or with that awful companionship of one whose mind was far away, which was so much more dreary than actual loneliness--sat brooding over the history of his friend's treachery.
What had he done with Marian?
Was her disappearance any work of his, after all?
Had he hidden her away for some secret reason of his own, and then acted out the play by pretending to search for her?
Knowing him for the traitor he was, could Gilbert Fenton draw any positive line of demarcation between the amount of guilt which was possible and that which was not possible to him?
What had he done with Marian?
How soon would he be able to answer that question?
or would he ever be able to answer it?
The thought of this delay was torture to Gilbert Fenton.