I have already alluded to certain reports or scandals which I
knew of relating to the early life of Arthur's father. While I
was thinking, in my bed, of what had passed at the inn; of the
change in the student's pulse when he heard the name of Holliday;
of the resemblance of expression that I had discovered between
his face and Arthur's; of the emphasis he had laid on those three
words, "my own brother," and of his incomprehensible
acknowledgment of his own illegitimacy--while I was thinking of
these things, the reports I have me ntioned suddenly flew into my
mind, and linked themselves fast to the chain of my previous
reflections. Something within me whispered, "It is best that
those two young men should not meet again." I felt it before I
slept; I felt it when I woke; and I went as I told you, alone to
the inn the next morning.

I had missed my only opportunity of seeing my nameless patient
again. He had been gone nearly an hour when I inquired for him.

I have now told you everything that I know for certain in
relation to the man whom I brought back to life in the
double-bedded room of the inn at Doncaster. What I have next to
add is matter for inference and surmise, and is not, strictly
speaking, matter of fact.

I have to tell you, first, that the medical student turned out to
be strangely and unaccountably right in assuming it as more than
probable that Arthur Holliday would marry the young lady who had
given him the water-color drawing of the landscape. That marriage
took place a little more than a year after the events occurred
which I have just been relating.