After a pause of more than a minute, during which the emotion subsided,
he replied:

"I have already said that I could not--" he paused. "I am not well,"
said he; "I am quite feeble--in fact, not in a condition to answer
anything. Do not, therefore, ask me--for the present, at least."

Fifteen or twenty minutes had elapsed before he succeeded in mastering
this singular attack. At length he rose, and placing his chair somewhat
further back from the window, continued to look out in silence, not so
much from love of silence, as apparently from inability to speak. The
stranger, in the mean time, eyed him keenly; and as he examined his
features from time to time, it might be observed that an expression
of satisfaction, if not almost of certainty, settled upon his own
countenance. In a quarter of an hour, the sound of the carriage-wheels
was heard on its return, and Fenton, who seemed to dread also a return
of his illness, said:

"For heaven's sake, sir, be good enough to raise the window and let in
air. Thank you, sir."

The carriage, on this occasion, was proceeding more slowly than
before--in fact, owing to a slight acclivity in that part of the street,
the horses were leisurely walking past the inn window at the moment the
stranger raised it. The noise of the ascending sash reached Miss Gourlay
(for it was she), who, on looking up, crimsoned deeply, and, with one
long taper finger on her lips, as if to intimate caution and silence,
bowed to the stranger. The latter, who had presence of mind enough to
observe the hint, did not bow in return, and consequently declined to
appropriate the compliment to himself. Fenton now surveyed his companion