He sat for some time over a cigar and a grog, walking in imagination
round and round the mystery, which steadfastly refused to dissolve or to
be set aside. His own honour, and perhaps the peace of his mother and
sister, were involved in it. He was resolved to ask Julius for an
explanation as soon as he could come to speech with him; but yet, in
spite of that assurance which he gave himself, he returned to the
mystery again and again, and beset and bewildered himself with
questions: Why was Julius estranged from his father? What was the secret
of the old man's life which had left such an awful impress on his face?
And why was he nightly haunting the busiest pavements of London, in the
crowd, but not of it, urged on as by some desire or agony?
He went to bed, but not to sleep. In the quiet and the darkness his
imagination ranged without constraint over the whole field of his
questionings. He went back upon Dr Rippon's story of the Spanish
marquis, and fixed on the mention of his occult studies. He saw him, in
fancy, without wife or son, cut off from the position and activities in
his native country which his proper rank would have given him, sequester
himself from society altogether, and give himself up to the study of
those Arabian sages and alchemists in whom he had delighted when he was
a young man.
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