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“I’m afraid, sir,” I replied, “that I can never take so lenient a view of him. I have suffered too much at his hands.”

“I don’t wonder, Byam. I don’t wonder at all. You have....”

The doctor was in the very midst of a sentence when the door was flung open and Sir Joseph entered. He was breathing heavily as though he had been running, and I could see that he was labouring under great emotion.

“Byam, my dear lad!”

He broke off, unable to say more. I felt an icy chill at my heart. Dr. Hamilton rose hastily, and looked from Sir Joseph to me and back again.

“No.... Wait.... It’s not what you think.... One moment....”

He took a stride into the tiny cabin and gripped me by the shoulders.

“Byam.... Tinkler is safe.... He is found.... He is in London now; at this moment!”

“Sit you down, lad,” said Dr. Hamilton. I needed no urging. My legs felt as weak as though I had been lying in bed for months. The surgeon took a small silver flask from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and offered it to me. Sir Joseph sat in the chair at my table and mopped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief. “Will you prescribe for me as well, Doctor?” he asked.