I returned to the inn at eight o'clock, purposely abstaining from
waking Arthur, who was sleeping off the past night's excitement
on one of my friend's sofas. A suspicion had occurred to me, as
soon as I was alone in my bedroom, which made me resolve that
Holliday and the stranger whose life he had saved should not meet
again, if I could prevent it.
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.
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