guessed this to be Patience Allerby, so the number of the extraordinary individuals who occupied Garsworth Grange was now complete.

Hearing the doctor enter, Squire Garsworth, with the suspicious celerity of a sick man, raised himself on his elbow and peered malevolently into the darkness, looking like some evil magician of old time.

"Who is there?" he asked in a querulous voice, "someone to rob me; thieves and rogues--all--all rogues and thieves."

"It is the doctor," said Una, coming close to him.

"What does he bring? what does he bring?" asked the sick man, eagerly, "life or death? Tell me, quick."

"I cannot tell you till I ask a few questions," said Nestley, stepping into the radius of light.

"Ha!" cried Garsworth, with sudden suspicion, "not Bland. No; a stranger. What do you want? Where is Bland?"

"He is ill," said Nestley distinctly, coming close to him, "and cannot come, but I am a doctor and will do as well."

The old man looked at him anxiously, seeming to devour him with the fierce intensity of his gaze.

"Weak," he muttered, after a pause, "very weak, still there is intellect in the face."

Then he suddenly put out his hand and grasped that of Nestley in his thin, claw-like fingers.

"I will trust you," he said rapidly. "You are weak, but honest. Save my life and I will pay you well."

"I will do what I can," replied Nestley simply.

The squire, with an effort, sat up in bed, and waved his hand imperatively.

"Turn them all out," he said sharply, pointing to the women. "I must tell you what I won't tell them. A physician is more of a confessor than a priest. Go away and leave me with my confessor."

Nestley was about to remonstrate, but Una placed her finger on her lips, and all three women noiselessly withdrew, bearing their candles. When the door closed after them the immense room was quite in darkness, save for the feeble glimmer of the taper by the bed, which shed its light on the pallid countenance of the old man now lying 

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