"That's right, Jack. Don't do like the
country butler, who, when his master said,
'John, have you shaken that wine?' replied,
'No, zur; but I will,' and then shook it up
like a draught. Ha, ha! I'll decant it; I
like doing it."

The doctor rose to decant the wine, standing
at the buffet to do it facing a mirror, and with
his back to the table, where the young man had
again sullenly seated himself. In the round
shining surface of the mirror the room was
repeated in sharp clear miniature. The bottle was
still gurgling out its crimson stores into the
broad silver wine-strainer, when the doctor,
casting his eyes upon the mirror, observed John
draw swiftly from his breast-pocket a little flat
black phial and pour a dozen drops of some
thick fluid into the half-full glass which stood
beside his uncle's plate.

He took no notice of what he had seen, nor
did he look round, but merely said:

"John, I'm sorry to trouble you, but we
shall want some brown sherry; there is hardly
enough for to-day. Get it before we sit down
to the real business of the evening."

The moment John Harkness left the room, the
doctor, with the quickness of youth, sipped the
wine, recognised the taste of laudanum, threw
open the door leading into the surgery, dashed
the wine down a sink, then shut the door, and
refilled the glass to exactly the same height.

"Here is the sherry, governor. Come, take
your wine."

The doctor tossed it off.

"I feel sleepy," he said—"strangely sleepy."

"Oh, it is the weather. Go into that green
chair and have a ten minutes' nap."

The doctor did so. In a moment or two he
fell back, assuming with consummate skill all the
external symptoms of deep sleep. A deep
apoplectic snoring breathing convinced the doctor's
adopted that the laudanum had taken effect.

A moment that hardened man stood watching
the sleeper's face; then, falling on his knees,
he slipped from the old doctor's finger his
massive seal-key.

The instant he turned to run to a cabinet
where the doctor's case-book was kept, the old
man's stern eyes opened upon him with the
swiftest curiosity; but the old man did not
move a limb nor a muscle, remaining fixed like
a figure of stone.

"He's safe,"said the coarse, unfeeling voice;
and now for the case-book, to fix it against
him if anything goes wrong."

As he said this, the lost man opened the
case-book and made an entry. He then locked
the book, replaced it in the cabinet, and slipped
the key-ring once more on the doctor's finger.
Then he rose and rang the bell softly. The old
servant came to the door.

"The governor's taken rather too much
wine," he said, blowing out the candles; "awake
him about twelve, and tell him I'm gone
to bed. You say I'm out, if you dare; and
mind and have the trap ready to-morrow at
half-past nine. I'm to be at Mrs. Thatcher's."

When the door closed upon the hopeless
profligate, the doctor rose and wrung his
hands. "Lost, lost!" he said; "but I will
still hide his shame. He shall have time still
to repent. I cannot—cannot forget how I once
loved him."

Sternly the doctor set himself to that task of
self-devotion—stern as a soldier chosen for a
forlorn hope. "To-morrow," he said, "I will
confront him, and try if I can touch that hard
heart."

When the servant came at twelve, the doctor
pretended to awake. "Joe," he said, "get
my chaise ready to-morrow at a quarter to ten;
mind, to the moment. Where's Mr. John?"

"Gone to bed, sir. Good night."

"He makes them all liars like himself," said
the old man, as he slammed his bedroom door.

VI.

"How is your missus?" said the young
doctor, as, driving fast through Crossford the next
morning, he suddenly espied Mrs. Thatcher's
servant standing at the post-office window.

The old coachman shook his head.

"Very bad, sir; sinking fast."

John Harkness made no reply, but lashed his
horse and drove fiercely off in the direction of
the sick woman's house.

"It all goes well," he said, half aloud. "I
had half a mind to stop the thing yesterday
when I saw her; but these fellows press so
with their bills, and the governor's so cursed
stingy. I really must press it on. It's no
crime. What is it? Only sending an old
woman two or three days sooner to the heaven
she is always whining for. Yet she was fond
of me, and it's rather a shame; but what can a
fellow do that's so badgered?"

So reasoned this fallen man, steeped in the
sophistries which sin uses as narcotics to
stupify its victims.

Arrived at the door, he threw down the reins,
tossed back the apron, and leaped out. He
was excited and desperate with the brandy he
had already found time to take. All at once,
as he passed his fingers in a vain way through
his whiskers and shook his white great-coat into
its natural folds, he glanced upward at the
windows. To his surprise, but by no means
violent regret, he saw that the blinds were all
down.

"By the Lord Harry!" he muttered, "if the
old cat hasn't already kicked the bucket! Vogue
la galère, that'll do. Now then for regret,
lamentation, and a white cambric handkerchief."

He pulled at the bell softly. In a moment or
two the door was opened by a servant, whose
eyes were red with crying. At the same
instant Miss Paget stepped from a room opening
into the hall. She had a handkerchief to her
face.

"Oh, John, John," she sobbed; "my dear,
dear aunt."

"Then she's really gone," said Harkness, with
well-feigned regret. "Here, Letty, come into