King of the Castle. Fenn George Manville

Tired. Ours is weary work,” and he yawned.

      “I believe I should have been a clever fellow,” mused the doctor, “if I had not been so confoundedly lazy. There’s something very interesting in these cases. In yours, for instance, my fine old fellow, it sets one thinking whether I could have treated you differently, and whether I could do anything to prevent the recurrence of these fits.”

      He smoked on in silence, and then shook his head.

      “No,” he said, half aloud; “if there is a fire burning, and that is kept burning, all that we can do is to keep on smothering it for a time. It is sure to keep on eating its way out. He has a fire in his brain which he insists upon keeping burning, so until he quenches it himself, all I can do is to stop the flames by smothering it over by my medical sods. You must cure yourself, Norman Gartram; I cannot cure you. No, and you cannot cure yourself, for you will go on struggling to make more money that you have no use for, till you die. Poor devil!”

      He said the last two words aloud, in a voice full of pitying contempt. Then, after another sip of his coffee, he looked round for a book, drew the lamp close to his right shoulder, and picked up one or two volumes, but only to throw them down again; and he was reaching over for another when his eye fell upon the cash belt with its bulging contents.

      “Humph,” he ejaculated, as he turned it over and over, and noted that it had been in service a long time. “Stuffed very full. Notes, I suppose. Old boy hates banking. Wonder how much there is in? Very dishonourable,” he muttered; “extremely so, but he has placed himself in my hands.”

      He drew out a pocket-book.

      “Wants a new elastic band, my dear Gartram. Out of order. I must prescribe a new band. Let me see; what have we here? Notes – fivers – tens – two fifties. Droll thing that these flimsy looking scraps of paper should represent so much money. More here too – tens, all of them.”

      He drew forth from the pockets of the book dirty doubled-up packets of Bank of England notes, and carelessly examined them, refolding them, and returning them to their places.

      “What a capital fee I might pay myself,” he said, with an unpleasant little laugh; “and I don’t suppose, old fellow, that you would miss it. Certainly, my dear Gartram, you would be none the worse. Extremely one-sided sometimes,” he said, “to have had the education of a gentleman and run short. Yes, very.”

      He returned the last notes to the pocket, and raised a little flap in the inner part.

      “Humph! what’s this? An old love letter. No: man’s handwriting: – ‘instructions to my executors.’”

      He gave vent to a low whistle, glanced at the sleeping man, then at the door, and back at his patient before laying down the pocket-book, and turning the soiled little envelope over and over.

      “Not fastened down,” he muttered. “I wonder what – Oh, no: one can’t do that.”

      He hastily picked up the pocket-book, and thrust the note back into its receptacle, but snatched it out again, opened it quickly, and read half aloud certain of the sentences which caught his attention – “‘Granite closet behind book cases – vault under centre of study – big granite chest’.”

      “Good heavens!” he said, after a pause, during which he read through the memorandum again; then refolding it and returning it to the envelope, he hastily placed the writing in its receptacle, and in turn this was put in the pocket-book. Lastly, the book was returned to the pouch in the belt, which latter was thrust hastily into one of the drawers of the writing-table, the key turned and taken out.

      “Give it to Mademoiselle Claude,” he said, with a half laugh. “What an awkward thing if I had been tempted to behave as some would have done under the circumstances.”

      He took out a delicate lawn handkerchief, unfolded it, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and then proceeded to do the same to his hands, which were cold and damp.

      “That coffee is strong,” he said, “or it is my fancy; perhaps the place is too warm.”

      He walked up and down the room two or three times, gazing anxiously at the bookshelves, and then at the table, where the floor was covered with a thick Turkey carpet; but he turned away and refilled his cup with coffee and brandy, found that his cigar was out, and threw the stump away before helping himself to a fresh one, and smoking heavily for some time, evidently thinking deeply.

      Then, apparently unable to resist the temptation, he rose and walked to the door, opened it and listened, found that all was silent, closed it again, and after glancing at his patient, who was sleeping heavily, he hastily drew out the key, opened the drawer, and, after a momentary hesitation, took out the belt.

      In another minute, the yellow looking memorandum was in his hands, being studied carefully before it was restored to its resting-place, and again locked up.

      “I did not know I had so much curiosity in my nature,” he said, with a half laugh. “Well, the study of mankind is man, doesn’t some one say, and I’m none the worse for a little extra knowledge of a friend’s affairs. I might be called upon to give advice some day.”

      Oddly enough, the knowledge again affected the doctor so that he wiped his brow and hands carefully, and then sat gazing thoughtfully before him as he sipped and smoked and seemed to settle down into a calm, restful state, which at times approached drowsiness.

      Upon these occasions he rose and softly paced the room, stopping to listen to his patient’s breathing, and twice over feeling his pulse.

      “Could not be going on better,” he muttered.

      Finally, during one of his turns up and down, he heard a step outside the door, followed by a light tap, and Claude entered.

      The doctor started, and looked at her wildly.

      “Why have you come down?” he said.

      “Come down? How is he? I overslept myself, and it is half-past two.”

      “Is it so late as that?”

      “Doctor Asher!” cried Claude excitedly, as she caught him by the arm, “you are keeping something back.”

      Her words seemed to smite him, and he tried vainly to speak. It was as if he had suddenly been startled by some terrible shock, and he stared at Claude with his jaw slightly fallen.

      “Why don’t you speak?”

      “Keeping something back,” he said hoarsely. “No!”

      “No? Why do you say that? You seem so confused and changed. Tell me, for heaven’s sake; my father – ”

      “Better – better,” he said, recovering himself, and speaking loudly, but in a husky voice. “I – I have been a little drowsy, I suppose, with the long watching. Not correct, but natural.”

      She looked at him wonderingly, he seemed so strange, and unable to contain herself, she turned to where her father lay, with her heart throbbing wildly, and something seemed to whisper to her the words, “He is dead.”

      Volume One – Chapter Seven.

      Sarah Woodham’s Vow

      It was after many hours of stupor, and when Doctor Asher, the physician of Danmouth, had gone back to the Fort, from a hurried visit to his injured patient, that Isaac Woodham unclosed his eyes, and lay gazing at the pale, agony-drawn face of his wife, upon which the light of the solitary candle fell.

      “What’s the matter?” he said hoarsely.

      “Ike, husband,” whispered the suffering woman.

      “Oh, yes; I remember now,” he said, with a piteous groan. “I always knew it would come.”

      “Ike, dear, can I do anything?” said his wife tenderly.

      “Yes.”

      “Tell me what, dear?”

      “I’ll tell you soon,” groaned the man. “I knew it would come; I always felt it. Ah, my