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 the candle near, deliberately lifted first one eye-lid and then the other. If the man were feigning unconsciousness he did it well. The eyes had a glassy, fixed appearance, but when I passed the candle backwards and forwards across the pupils, they acted naturally. Raising an eye-lid I pressed the tip of one finger on the eye-ball. He flinched then—it was enough.

"There is no immediate cause for anxiety," I said, aloud. "I will prepare a medicine for your father. When he has had a good sleep he will be much as usual. Have you anyone who will go to the nearest chemist's?"

"I will go, if necessary," she replied. "The servants have gone to bed."

"Surely one of them could be awakened," I answered. "In a case of this kind, you must not be too regardful of their comforts. I will sit with Mr. Whitby, while you run and rouse one of your servants."

"Very well," she said, after a pause; "I will do so."

"Won't you take the candle?" I asked.

"No," she replied, "I can find my way in the dark."

She left the room, closing the door behind her. The moment she had done so, the patient on the bed moved, opened his eyes, and sat up. He looked full at me.

"May I ask your name?" he inquired.

"Dr. Halifax—I have been asked to prescribe for you by your daughter."

"You sat near us at the Criterion?"

"I did."

"Did my daughter ask you to come home with her?"

"Not exactly—I offered to do so—she seemed in distress about you."

"Poor Leonora," he said—and then he glanced towards the door.

"Did she tell you that I place no faith in your profession?" he asked again, after a pause.

"She did, and that being the case, now that you are really better, I will leave you."

"No, don't do so. As you have come in one sense uninvited, I will put you to the test—you shall prescribe for me."

"Willingly," I replied; "and now, as it is necessary for a doctor and his patient to clearly understand each other, I may as well tell you at once that, the moment I saw you, I knew that you were not unconscious."

"You are right, I was perfectly conscious."

"Why did you feign to be otherwise?" I asked.

"For Leonora's sake, and—my God, I cannot stand this any longer!" He started upright, then fell back with a groan.

"Lock the door," he said; "don't let her in. I am in agony, in frightful agony. I suffer from angina pectoris."

"Leonora knows nothing of this," he gasped. "I conceal it from her. I let her imagine that I suffer from a sort of epileptic fit. Nothing of the kind. This hell fire visits me, and I keep it from Leonora. Now that you have come, give me something, quick, quick!"

"I would, if I had the necessary remedy by me," I replied. "If you will allow me, I will write a prescription for your servant. I can get what is necessary at the nearest chemist's. If you prefer it, I will go myself to fetch what is required."

"No, no—stay—not in this room, but