Faithful to his time of tryst with Gartram, Glyddyr made his way up to the Fort that morning, thinking deeply of his position, and wondering whether Gartram had good news to report.

He reached the frowning gateway, went along the granite-paved passage, and was passing the end of the terrace walk which ran along the front of the house, when he caught sight of a dress just as the wearer passed round the corner of the house to the garden formed at the end.

“Claude or Mary,” he said to himself.  “Shall I?  The old man likes me to make myself at home, and it may mean a tete-a-tete there, overlooking the sea.  I will.”

With a sinister smile he turned off to the left, instead of going up to the door.  He went by the bay window of the dining-room, and was in the act of passing that of Gartram’s study when the robin flew out of the feathery tamarisk, and as he was looking at the flight of the bird, he turned sharply, for a curious, gasping cry came from the room on the right.

He ran into the room, instinctively feeling what was wrong, and in nowise surprised to find that Gartram was struggling in a fit upon the carpet.

His first act was to drag away the chairs nearest to the suffering man, and then to try and place him in a position so that he would not be likely to suffer from strangulation.

“It’s very horrid,” he muttered, “and will frighten the poor girl almost to death; but I must ring ­no:  I’ll go for help.”

He stopped short, for his eyes lit upon the bags and loose coin upon the table, and then upon the open safe, towards which he seemed drawn, as if fascinated.

“By George!” he muttered, after glancing back at where Gartram lay, perfectly insensible to what went on around him.  “Monte Christo, and ­”

He paused, and looked stealthily about, feeling giddy the while, as a great temptation assailed him, making him turn pale.

But he mastered the feeling directly, and after a moments thought swept the money back into the receptacle, and carried it and the book to the safe.

“Poor old chap!” he thought.  “I needn’t stoop to steal when he is so ready to give it all.”

He closed the door quickly, and locked it, then drew back and grasped the idea of how it was hidden directly, turning the great panel of the bookcase on its pivot, and closing in the iron door.

He had just finished this and relocked the place, which he was able to do after a little puzzling, when he saw that the fit was growing more severe, and at the same time noted the open drawer in the table.

“Keep the keys there,” he said to himself, as he replaced them and closed the drawer.  “There, that’s what he would have wished his son-in-law elect to do for him, so now for help.”

He bent over Gartram for a moment, and shrank slightly from the distorted face and rolling eyes.  Then, going to the door, he turned the handle.

“Locked!” he exclaimed, “to keep out interruption and prying eyes.  Well, old fellow, I am in your secret, and know the open sesame of the golden cave, so we shall see.”

He turned the key, threw open the door, and hurried into the hall, but ran back directly, and, glancing at Gartram as he did so, pulled the bell sharply.

Almost as he reached the door, Sarah Woodham and one of the servants entered the hall.

“Here, you,” he said quickly to the dark, stern-looking woman, “send at once for the doctor; your master is in a fit.”

Sarah turned to her fellow-servant, gave her the required instructions, and followed Glyddyr back into the study.

“Where are the young ladies?” he said.  “Don’t let them come.”

“They must know, sir,” said the woman, going down on one knee to place Gartram’s head in a more natural position.  “Miss Claude would not forgive me if she was not told.”

Almost at the same moment, a step was heard on the terrace outside.  Mary came by, humming a tune to herself, glanced in, and, seeing what was wrong, darted away.

The next minute she and Claude were there, aiding in every possible way till the doctor’s step was heard in the hall.

He came in directly, and gave two or three short, quick orders, almost the first being to dismiss every one but Sarah Woodham.

“Go into the drawing-room,” he said.  “I’ll call if I want any help.  He’ll soon come round now.  What has been the matter; some fresh excitement?”

Claude’s countenance was full of trouble, but she made no reply.  Still, she could not help glancing at Glyddyr, and to her shame and annoyance found that he was looking at her in an eager, imploring way, as he held open the door for her to pass out, and then followed.

“He’s coming into the drawing-room, Mary,” Claude whispered.  “I cannot speak.  Pray say something to send him away.”

There was no need for Mary to speak.  Glyddyr came up to Claude at once, and took her hand.

“I cannot tell you how grieved I am, Miss Gartram,” he whispered, in a voice full of sympathy.  “Your father invited me to call upon him this morning, and when I came I found him lying in his room as you saw.”

He did not explain which way he entered, and for the time no one thought it strange.

Then there was silence, and Claude, after a vain attempt to control her emotion and speech, tried to withdraw her hand, but it was held fast.

“I am on the horns of a dilemma,” continued Glyddyr ­“puzzled.  I want to show my sympathy, and to be of help, but I cannot see in which way I can be of most service ­by staying or by leaving at once.”

“By going, Mr Glyddyr.  Pray leave us now.  You can indeed do nothing.”

“I will obey your lightest wish,” he said eagerly.  “You have only to speak.”

“Then, pray, go.”

He raised the hand he held to his lips, and pressed it long and tenderly, till it was hastily withdrawn, and then, bowing only to Mary, he went quickly from the room.

“Bless the fit!” he said to himself.  “Brought me a bit nearer to her haughty ladyship.  Bah! it’s only a question of time.”

It was in Claude’s heart to relate her interview with her father that morning, but she shrank from speaking; and her attention was taken up by the entrance of the doctor.

“Better,” he said; “decidedly better.”

“Can I go to him?”

“If you wish it.  But your entrance might disturb him now, as he has just sunk into a peaceful sleep.  Mrs Woodham is watching him, and will call you if there is any need.  But, believe me, there will be none.  He’ll sleep for some hours, and then wake quite himself; but, of course, very irritable and strange.  You will then see that he has the medicine I have left for him, and after an hour that which I shall send on.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Either administer it yourself, or let that woman give it to him.  Don’t trust Mr Gartram.”

“Not trust him?”

“No; he will neglect it, and then take a double dose to make up for it, and that will not do.  Regularity, and keeping himself under the influence of the drug, is what we want.”

“I will attend to it myself,” said Claude.

“And when you are going to be away, let Mrs Woodham administer it.  Perhaps it would be better to leave it entirely to her.”

“Oh, no; I would rather keep it under my own eye.  You will come in again soon?”

“I begin to be ashamed of coming so often,” said the doctor, smiling, “and ask myself whether my treatment is right.”

“Oh, I have perfect faith in that,” said Claude, “and so has my father.”

“Thank you,” he said smiling.

“Now, please, tell me, Doctor Asher, the simple truth.”

“Why, of course.”

“You smile, and you say that out of mere politeness, and to make me comfortable.  I want to know the truth.”

“Now, my dear child ­”

“But I am not a child, Doctor Asher.  Once a child to you is to be always a child.  Can you not see that I am a grown woman, full of a woman’s trouble’s?”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Gartram.  You shall not complain again.”

“Then tell me without any disguise ­is my father’s life in danger?”

“Rest assured that it is not.”

“Thank heaven!”

“But I must tell you this ­I can do nothing to arrest these fits ­”

“These terrible fits!” sighed Claude.

“ ­Without I have his co-operation, for so much depends upon his living a quiet, peaceful life, without throwing himself into these violent fits of temper.  You force me to speak plainly, but, of course, it is between us.  If he knew that I said what I do, it would have a bad effect upon him, and send him into another passion.”

“But what can I do?” said Claude her eyes filling with tears.

“Use your woman’s wit.  I can give you no better counsel.  You must be the cooling oil to stop the friction when you see it arising; and, above all, never thwart him in anything upon which he has set his mind.”

A great sob struggled for exit in Claude’s breast as she heard the doctor’s words, which were more full of meaning to her than he realised, and she glanced round, to see that her cousin was watching her closely.

“I will do my best,” she said.

“That’s well,” said Asher, giving his white hands a soft rub together as he smiled from one to the other. “`What can’t be cured must be endured,’ young ladies; but I do not say that this cannot be cured.  We will do our best, but the patient must be made to help.  Does he take his medicine regularly?”

Claude shook her head.

“I thought not.  Flies to it, I suppose, when he feels bad, and neglects it at other times.”

“But that other medicine, doctor ­the chloral which he takes ­is it good for him?”

Asher shook his head.

“Then why do you let him have it?”

“My dear young lady, is not that rather unreasonable?  Now, look here; supposing I were to say, `Mr Gartram, chloral is ruining your system,’ what would he reply?”

Claude shook her head.

“I appeal to you, Miss Dillon; what do you think your uncle would say?”

“Go to the devil!” said Mary quietly.

“Mary!”

“Well, he would, Claudie, and you know it.”

“Miss Dillon is quite right,” said the doctor, rubbing his hands.  “Strong but truthful; chloral he will have, and if he keeps to it as I prescribe ­in moderation ­it will not do him much harm, but tend to calm him.  There, I’ll look in again.  He is going on as well as can be.”

“Shall we go and sit with him?”

“N-no; I hardly think it necessary.  You can do no good.  I have given Sarah Woodham the fullest instructions, and I’ll come in again this evening.”

The doctor left, and as soon as he was gone, Mary Dillon shook her head.

“Poor Claudie!” she whispered.  “Mustn’t thwart uncle in any of his wishes.  And it means so much, doesn’t it?”

“Master would like to see you, Miss Claude,” said Sarah Woodham, coming to the door.

“Not worse, Sarah?”

“No, miss; better, I think.”

Claude followed her into the passage on her way to her father’s room, but the woman arrested her.

“Miss Claude, may I say a word to you?”

“Yes, certainly.  What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking this all over, my dear, and after giving it a fair trial, I want you to let me go again.”

“Now, Sarah ­”

“Pray listen to me, miss.  Master does not like me, for I make him think of poor Woodham; and I’m a bad nurse, and I feel sometimes as if I couldn’t bear it.”

“You are not a bad nurse,” said Claude, taking the woman’s hand; “but you feel it hard work to settle down again ­that is all.”

“No, no, miss, it isn’t only that,” said the woman wildly.  “But let me speak to you again, my dear; he wants you now.”

Claude nodded to her smilingly, and hurried into her father’s room, leaving the woman standing with knitted brow, and hands clasped.

She looked fixedly at the door, uttered a sigh, and went to her room, to sit thinking deeply of the duty she was called upon to perform, just as her love for Claude was fast growing.