downstairs. Leonora will take your message. I hear her now at the door. Let her in—keep your own counsel. Do not betray me."
"I can let her in, in a moment," I answered; "but first let me say that I think you are doing very wrong. Miss Whitby has, I am convinced, presence of mind and strength of character. She would bear to know the true state of things. Sooner or later she must find out. If you give me permission, I will tell her. It is best for me to tell her."
"What I suffer from will kill me in the end, will it not?" inquired Whitby.
"What you suffer from, I need not tell you, is a serious malady. I have not, of course, gone carefully into your case, and it is impossible to do so until the paroxysm of pain is over. In the meantime, trinitrin will give you immediate relief."
"Let me in, please," called Leonora's voice through the keyhole.
"In one moment," I answered. Then I turned to the sick man.
"Shall I tell your daughter, Mr. Whitby? She must have heard us talking. She will know that you have at least returned to consciousness."
"You can tell her that I am in some pain," he replied, "that I have recovered consciousness, and that you are going to administer trinitrin; now go. Promise me that you will reveal nothing further to-night."
He groaned as he spoke, clutched the bed-clothes, and writhed in agony.
"He writhed in agony."
"I will promise to do as you wish," I said, pity in my tone.
I unlocked the door, and stood before Miss Whitby.
"My father is better; he has recovered consciousness," she exclaimed at once.
"He wishes to be alone and quiet," I replied. "Darkness will be good for him. We will take the candle and go downstairs."
I lifted it from the table as I spoke, and we descended together to the sitting-room.
"Is your servant coming for the message?" I inquired.
"Yes," she answered. "He will be dressed in a moment."
"Then, if you will give me a sheet of paper and a pen and ink, I will write my prescription," I said. She fetched me some paper at once; a pen and ink, and a blotting-pad.
"Write," she said. "After you have written your prescription, and the servant has gone to fetch the medicine, you must tell me the truth."
I made no reply at all to this. I wrote for a certain preparation (trinitrin) and a hypodermic syringe. I handed the paper to Miss Whitby. She stood for a moment with it in her hand, then she left the room.
"The servant is a long time coming down," she said when she returned. "How slow, how unsympathetic servants are, and yet we are good to ours. We treat them with vast and exceptional consideration."
"You certainly do," I replied. "There are few houses of this kind where the servants go to bed when their master and mistress happen to be out. There are few houses where the servants retire to rest when the master happens to be dangerously ill."
"Oh, not dangerously, don't say that," she answered.
"I may be wrong to apply the word 'danger' just now," I replied; "but in any case, it
