'By the way,' said Dr Ansell one evening when Morel was in Sheffield, 'we've got a man in the fever hospital here who comes from Nottingham--Dawes. He doesn't seem to have many belongings in this world.'
'Baxter Dawes!' Paul exclaimed.
'That's the man--has been a fine fellow, physically, I should think. Been in a bit of a mess lately. You know him?'
'He used to work at the place where I am.'
'Did he? Do you know anything about him? He's just sulking, or he'd be a lot better than he is by now.'
'I don't know anything of his home circumstances, except that he's separated from his wife and has been a bit down, I believe. But tell him about me, will you? Tell him I'll come and see him.'
The next time Morel saw the doctor he said:
'And what about Dawes?'
'I said to him,' answered the other, '"Do you know a man from Nottingham named Morel?" and he looked at me as if he'd jump at my throat. So I said, "I see you know the name; it's Paul Morel." Then I told him about your saying you would go and see him. "What does he want?" he said, as if you were a policeman.'
'And did he say he would see me?' asked Paul.
'He wouldn't say anything--good, bad, or indifferent,' replied the doctor.
'That's what I want to know. There he lies and sulks, day in, day out. Can't get a word of information out of him.'
'Do you think I might go?' asked Paul.
There was a feeling of connection between the rival men, more than ever since they had fought. In a way Morel felt guilty towards the other, and more or less responsible. And