of his loud tormenting mood, he showed an intense, vague terror, and seemed to deprecate Bulstrode’s anger, because the money was all gone—he had been robbed—it had half of it been taken from him. He had only come here because he was ill and somebody was hunting him—somebody was after him: he had told nobody anything, he had kept his mouth shut. Bulstrode, not knowing the significance of these symptoms, intepreted this new nervous susceptibility into a means of alarming Raffles into true confessions, and taxed him with falsehood in saying that he had not told anything, since he had just told the man who took him up in his gig and brought him to Stone Court. Raffles denied this with solemn adjurations; the fact being that the links of consciousness were interrupted in him, and that his minute terror-stricken narrative to Caleb Garth had been delivered under a set of visionary impulses which had dropped back into darkness.
Bulstrode’s heart sank again at this sign that he could get no grasp over the wretched man’s mind, and that no word of Raffles could be trusted as to the fact which he most wanted to know, namely, whether or not he had really kept silence to every one in the neighbourhood except Caleb Garth. The housekeeper had told him without the least constraint of manner that since Mr Garth left, Raffles had asked her for beer, and after that had not spoken, seeming very ill. On that side it might be concluded that there had been no betrayal. Mrs Abel thought, like the servants at The Shrubs, that the strange man belonged to the unpleasant “kin” who are among the troubles of the rich; she had at first referred the kinship to Mr Rigg, and where there was property left, the buzzing presence of such large blue-bottles seemed natural enough. How he could be “kin” to Bulstrode as well was not so clear, but Mrs Abel agreed with her husband that there was “no knowing,” a proposition which had a great deal of mental food for her, so that she shook her head over it without further speculation.
In less than an hour Lydgate arrived. Bulstrode met him outside the wainscoated parlour, where Raffles was, and said—
“I have called you in, Mr Lydgate, to an unfortunate man who was once in my employment, many years ago. Afterwards he went to America, and returned I fear to an idle dissolute life. Being destitute, he has a claim on me. He was slightly connected with Rigg, the former owner of this place, and in consequence found his way here. I believe he is seriously ill: apparently his mind is affected. I feel bound to do the utmost for him.”
Lydgate, who had the remembrance of his last conversation with Bulstrode strongly upon him, was not disposed to say an unnecessary word to him, and bowed slightly in answer to this account; but just before entering the room he turned automatically and said, “What is his name?”—to know names being as much a part of the medical man’s accomplishment as of the practical politician’s.
“Raffles, John Raffles,” said Bulstrode, who hoped that whatever became of Raffles, Lydgate would never know any more of him.
