Doctor Asher did not go straight up to the Fort and tell every one that he had seen Chris Lisle coming down from the house.  In fact, he hardly gave the meeting a second thought, for his mind was full of other matters.

“Well, young ladies,” he said cheerily, “all alone?  I hope I am not too late for a cup of the boon.  No?  That’s right.  Bless the man who first brought tea from China ­the deliciously refreshing beverage we drink out of china, eh, Miss Dillon?”

“But you always have it in china, Doctor Asher,” said Mary quaintly.

“No, no, no, no, no,” said the doctor, smiling, as he tapped his cup with his spoon.  “I am not going to be inveigled into a chop-logic or punning encounter with you, my dear, because I should be beaten.  Come, now, if you want an argument, step on to my ground and give a poor man a chance.  Now, what is your opinion of the effect of a vegetable alkaloid on the digestive function?”

“A very poor one,” said Mary quietly.  “Can’t argue.”

“Ah, well, but you can sing.  Will you?”

“If you wish me to.”

“If I wish you, eh,” said the doctor.  “You know I do.  But where is Mr Glyddyr?  Gone.”

“He went to smoke in the study,” said Claude quietly.

The doctor turned round sharply.

“To burn vegetable alkaloid for his digestive function,” said Mary.

At that moment there was a step in the hall, and Glyddyr came in, looking rather sallow.

“Just in time, Mr Glyddyr,” said the doctor; “we are going to have a song.”

“Indeed?” said Glyddyr.  “I am very glad.”

“When I marry ­that is, if I marry,” said the doctor ­“What delicious tea.  A little too strong.  Miss Gartram, would you kindly ­a drop of milk ­I mean cream.  Thanks.  What was I saying?  Oh!  I remember.  When I marry ­if I marry ­I shall ask a lady who is a clever musician to share my lot.  By the way, is Mr Gartram coming?”

“Sound asleep still,” said Glyddyr quickly.  “I spoke to him when I finished my cigar, but he didn’t reply.”

“Not well, Mr Glyddyr?” said the doctor, between two sips of his tea.

“Well, really, to be frank,” said Glyddyr hastily, “I don’t think I am quite the thing.  That last cigar was of a peculiar brand, I suppose, one I was not accustomed to; and if you will excuse me, Miss Gartram, I will say good-night.”

“Let me prescribe.  A cup of strong coffee, or a liqueur of brandy.  Miss Gartram, may I ring?”

“I will go and see that they are brought in,” said Mary, leaving the piano, where she was arranging a piece of music.

“No, no; I beg you will not,” said Glyddyr.  “I’ll walk down to the harbour in the fresh night air.  My men will be waiting.  I said ten ­ they must be there now.  Better soon.”

“Mr Gartram does have some strong cigars,” said the doctor quietly.  “Singular that nicotine from one leaf affects you more than another.”

“I am sorry you feel unwell, Mr Glyddyr,” said Claude, in the most matter-of-fact tone.

“Mere trifle ­nothing.  Most absurd in me.”

“Pray let me ring for the spirit stand.”

“Indeed, no.  Good-night ­good-night, Miss Dillon.  I’m going to be independent of you, Doctor Asher.  Good-night.”

“Smokes too much, I’m afraid,” said the doctor, as the door was closed on Glyddyr’s retreating figure.  “Seems unnerved.  I shall be called upon to prescribe for him, only I’m afraid that you would quarrel with my medicine, Miss Gartram.”

“I?” said Claude quickly.

“I am afraid I have been indiscreet.  Elderly men will presume upon their years, my dear Miss Gartram, and think that they have a right to banter young ladies.  I was only going to say that my prescription would be, go away for a good long sea trip.”

“Is not papa sleeping an unusually long time, Mary?” said Claude, ignoring the doctor’s remark, as she proceeded to refill his cup.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mary; “I’ll go and see.”

She left the room, and Claude at once turned to the doctor.

“Do you think papa is acting rightly about the medicine he takes?”

Asher raised his eyebrows, and gave his shoulders a slight shrug.

“It makes me terribly uneasy,” said Claude.  “Of course, I know very little about these matters, but I have naturally learned how the use of narcotics grows upon those who indulge in them; and papa seems to fly more and more to that chloral.”

The doctor pursed up his lips in the most professional way.

“Really, my dear young lady,” he said, “you are, to speak vulgarly, putting me in a corner.”

“Pray do not trifle with me, doctor.  You cannot think how I suffer.”

“I will be perfectly frank with you, my child.  No he is not acting rightly, and the use of this drug is doing him harm.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Claude; and then, with eyes flashing and an indignant look, “How can you let him go on taking it, then?”

“Because I cannot help myself, my dear madam; and as I have before observed, it is better that he should take it under my supervision than left to himself, though even now I am helpless.  I prescribe certain quantities, but I cannot prevent his taking more.”

“But why don’t you tell him that it is bad for him?”

“I have done so a score of times.”

“And what does he say?”

“That I am a fool, and am to mind my own business.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Claude, with the troubled look in her face increasing.

“He tells me plainly that if I do not choose to go on attending him as he wishes, he will call in some one else.  My dear Miss Gartram, your father is not a man to drive; he always insists on holding the reins himself.”

“But, Doctor Asher, cannot anything be done?”

“I am doing all that is possible, my dear.  I am giving him tonic medicine with the idea of counteracting any evil produced by the sedative dose he takes.  If you can suggest a better line to pursue, pray let me hear it.”

“No, no,” said Claude sadly; “I am very ignorant and helpless.  Does he really require this medicine?”

“Yes, and no, my child.  He suffers terribly from insomnia, and nothing can be worse for a weary man than to be lying sleepless, night after night.  It is a serious complaint.”

“Yes,” sighed Claude.

“He must have sleep, and to my mind the chloral seems the best thing to get it.”

“But you said yes and no, doctor?”

“I did.  Well, then, no.  Your father does not require this medicine if he will only change his course of life.”

Claude sighed.

“Do you wish me to speak plainly as your friend?”

“Yes; of course.”

“Then here is the case.  All this insomnia is the consequence of an over-excited brain.  Your father has certain ideas, and unfortunately they grow upon him.  He has struggled hard to be rich.  Now, of course, I know very little about his affairs, but everything points to the fact that he is a very rich man.”

“Yes,” sighed Claude; “he is, I think, very rich.”

“We will take it to be so.  Well, then, why cannot he be content, and not be constantly striving for more?” Claude sighed again.

“I like money, wealth, power, and the rest of it; and I could go into London, say, and work up a prosperous practice; but I am happy here, with just enough for my needs; so I say to myself, `why should I stir?’”

“You are right, doctor.  But my father’s case ­what can we do?”

“I’ll tell you.  Let me have your co-operation more.  I want him weaned from this hunt for wealth; and the only way to achieve this is for you and your cousin to give way to him in everything.  Never thwart him, for fear of bringing on one of those terrible fits.”

“I will try in every way,” replied Claude.

“Any opposition to his will would be seriously hurtful.  Then, as to his life, it really rests with you to wean him in every way from his present pursuits.  Company, visits, travel, anything to diver his attention from the constant struggle for more of the sordid dross.”

“But if you told him all this, doctor?  I feel so helpless.”

“I have told him again and again, without success, but if we all combine more and more to keep up the pressure, we may win at last.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime we can quiet our consciences with the knowledge that we are doing what is right.”

“Fast asleep, dear,” said Mary, entering the room just then; and Claude directed an uneasy look at the doctor.

“Papa does not often sleep so long as this,” said Claude, after an uneasy interval.

“But it seemed a pity to disturb him,” replied Mary, and the doctor bent his head gravely.  “He seemed to be so comfortable.  Woodham was there when I went in.  She had been shutting the window, as it was growing chilly.”

“Quite right,” said the doctor.

“She said she had been in before to remove the coffee cups; and I waited some time to see if he would wake, but, as he did not, I came away.  That’s what is the matter with uncle.”

The doctor looked round sharply.

“Sleeping in the day time, and in the evenings.  Why doesn’t he save it all up till night?”

They sat a few minutes longer, and then, unable to keep back the feeling of uneasiness which troubled her, Claude rose, excused herself, and left the drawing-room to see if her father was awake.

“Still asleep?” said Mary, as she returned.

“Yes,” said Claude, looking in a troubled way from one to the other; but the doctor seemed to be so very calm that she felt ashamed of the uneasy sensation which was troubling her, and, telling herself that she was foolishly nervous, she joined in the conversation.  Then Mary sang a song, which the doctor insisted upon being repeated.

“I always felt and said that if ever I married it would be a lady with a charming voice.”

“Well,” said Mary sharply, “every one says I have a charming voice.”

“You have indeed,” said the doctor enthusiastically.

“I need have something charming about me by way of compensation,” cried Mary, as she made a grimace.  “Perhaps, Doctor Asher, you had better propose for me.”

“Mary!” exclaimed Claude, flushing up to the roots of her hair.

“I don’t mean it, dear,” said Mary demurely.  “The tongue is an unruly member, you know.”

“Well,” said the doctor, as he leaned back in his chair, with his eyes half closed, “some young ladies do not object to marrying a man thirty years their senior.  Why not?”

“Shall I stand up and walk round, so that you may see all my graces and action?” said Mary banteringly.

“A young man looks at the outward graces of form and complexion,” said the doctor gravely; “a man of my age looks for those of the mind.  He wants a companion who can talk.”

“Oh, I can talk,” said Mary merrily; “can’t I, Claude?”

“Mary, dear, I must request that you will not speak like this,” said Claude, very gravely.  “You hurt me; and would you mind going in again and seeing if papa is awake.”

“Are you going to send me to bed, too, for being a naughty girl?” said Mary, rising.

Claude made no reply, but there was a good deal conveyed in her intent gaze, which for that moment Mary seemed to resent; but directly after her bright eyes beamed upon her cousin, and she passed close behind her chair, giving her an affectionate tap on the shoulder as she passed.

As she reached the door she turned, and there was a merry, yet half-pathetic look in her eyes as she said quickly ­

“No, thank you, Doctor Asher, I am a kind of lay nun.”

“Mary says a great deal sometimes that she does not mean,” said Claude quickly.  “But as papa does not seem to come, you would like a little seltzer water and the spirits, would you not?”

“I?  No, no, my dear child, no,” said the doctor, taking out his watch.  “I do take these things sometimes for sociability’s sake, but I always avoid them if I can, and I have a good opportunity here.  Eleven o’clock.  How the time flies.  I must be off.”

“Pray don’t say no because the spirits are not in the room.”

“Believe me, I am so old a friend now, that I should not scruple to ask for them if I was so disposed. ­Hah!  Yes, that is one of the things which teach us that we are growing old.”

“I do not understand you.”

“I meant your cousin’s acuteness; when a man is about fifty, young ladies consider him a safe mark for their shafts.”

“Don’t think that, Doctor Asher.  There is no malice in my dear cousin, but her deformity has caused her to be petted and indulged.  She has not had a mother’s constant care.”

“Neither have you, my child.”

“No,” said Claude quietly; “but believe me, my cousin would be deeply grieved if she knew that she had said ­Yes.  What’s the matter?  Papa?”

Claude had started from her chair, for, after giving a sharp tap at the door, Sarah Woodham had entered, looking ghastly, her dark eyes so widely open that they showed a white ring about the iris, her lips apart, and her hands convulsively twisting and tearing the apron she held out before her.

“Master, my dear.  He frightens me.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said the doctor quickly, as he rose perfectly cool and collected, and followed Claude out of the room, while, as the door swung to, the woman uttered a hoarse, panting sound, threw herself upon her knees, and clasping her hands together, she rocked herself to and fro.

“Oh, Isaac! husband!” she moaned, “it is too terrible.  Heaven help me!  Why did I come here?”

“Mary!  Papa!” cried Claude, as she ran into the study, followed by the doctor.

“Hush!  Don’t be alarmed,” said Mary.  “I only thought that he was not breathing quite so naturally as he should, and I sent Woodham to fetch you.”

Claude flew to her father’s side, and caught his hand, looking intently in his face and then inquiringly at the doctor, who advanced in a calm, professional way, removed the lamp shade, drew the light so that it would fall upon the patient’s face, proceeded to feel his pulse, and then opened his eyelid to gaze attentively in the pupil.

“Quick, tell me!” cried Claude, in an excited whisper; “is it another fit?”

“No,” said the doctor gravely.  “Be calm and quiet.  I should like him to wake up naturally.  There is nothing to mind.”

Claude uttered a sigh of relief, and closed her eyes for a few moments.

“What is the matter?” she said then.

“I am not sure yet, but I fear that it is what we said ­an overdose.”

“Oh, Doctor Asher!”

“Hush, my child; don’t be agitated.  There, he will sleep more easily now,” he continued, as he unfastened the insensible man’s collar and drew off his tie.

“You are not deceiving me?”

“Deceiving you?” said the doctor reproachfully.

“Can I do anything, ma’am?” said Woodham, softly entering the room.

“No, I think; nothing,” said the doctor thoughtfully.  “I am very glad I had not gone.”

“Then you think ­there is danger?”

“Danger?  No, no, my dear child.  There, let him rest.  Miss Dillon, will you draw back that lamp and replace the shade?  That’s it.  Better let him sleep it off quietly.”

Woodham quickly raised the lamp and set it down in its old place, while Mary carefully put on the shade, with the effect that the room was once more gloomy of aspect, save where the bright light was condensed upon the table.

As soon as this was done, Claude looked appealingly in the doctor’s face, her eyes seeming to ask ­What next?

The question was so plainly expressed that Asher said, with a smile ­

“What next?  Oh, we must let him sleep it off.  I don’t suppose that he will be very long before he wakes.”

Claude’s hands seemed to go naturally together, and she passed one over the other, while Sarah Woodham stood gazing intently at Gartram, and a curious shudder ran through her from time to time.

“But, Doctor Asher,” said Claude at last, “I do feel so helpless ­so lonely.  I ­”

“Oh, come, come,” cried the doctor encouragingly; “don’t look at it so seriously.  It is a heavy sleep, and may last for hours.  I’ll stop for a bit, and then come in quite early in the morning.  Perhaps it would be as well for somebody to sit up.”

Claude tried to speak, but she could not.  She laid her hand upon the doctor’s arm, and stood, with her lip quivering, gazing down at her father till she could command her voice, and then she whispered huskily, ­

“Don’t go.”

She could say no more, but stood looking appealingly in his eyes.

“You mean stay till he wakes?”

She nodded quickly.

“Oh, certainly, if you wish it; but I ought to tell you that I hardly think it necessary.”

“I do wish it,” said Claude.  “Do not you.  Mary?”

“Yes.”

“By all means.”

“I will sit with you.  Mary, too, will keep us company.”

“No, no,” said the doctor in a whisper, “there is no need for that.  If I stay, it is with the understanding that you both go to bed.”

Sarah Woodham was standing back in the shadow, but she appeared to be listening eagerly to every word.

“But we should make it less dull for you,” pleaded Claude.

“I am never dull when I sit up with a sick person,” said the doctor didactically.  “These are my hours for study of my patient.  No, no; if I am to stay it is as the doctor ­the master of the situation.  You will go to bed.”

“But you will want refreshments ­somebody within call.”

“To be sure, and there will be our old friend Mrs Woodham.  You will sit up?”

“Yes, sir, of course,” said the woman eagerly.

“That’s right.  Now, then, ladies, if you please, we must have utter silence till Mr Gartram wakes.”

Claude sighed, but she bowed her head, and turned to leave the room with Mary; but as she reached the door, she hurried back to where her father was seated, and bent over him to kiss his forehead.

“Must I go, doctor?” she whispered.

“Certainly,” he said quietly.

“But if he seems worse, you would have me called?”

“Directly.”

The two girls left the room, Claude beckoning to Sarah Woodham, who followed them out.

“You will make coffee for Doctor Asher.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course.”

“Go back and ask him when he would like it brought to him; and, Sarah, you will come and tell me how papa is.  I shall not undress ­only lie down.”

“You may depend on me, Miss Claude.”

“But you ­is anything the matter?  You look so ill.”

“I was a bit startled at master’s way of breathing, my dear.  I thought he was going to be much worse.”

Claude went back into the drawing-room with Mary Dillon, neither of them noticing how wild and excited the servant grew, and a few minutes after they went slowly upstairs to Claude’s room.

Sarah Woodham softly retraced her steps to the study, tapped gently, and the door was opened by the doctor, who stood in the opening, book in hand.

“When will I have coffee?  Oh, about four o’clock.  I have only just had tea.  Go and lie down somewhere within call ­where I can find you.”

“I am not sleepy, sir.”

“No; but you may be by-and-by.  Go and lie down on the sofa in the dining-room, I can easily find you there.  Why, my good woman, you look ghastly.”

Sarah Woodham shrank away.

“Don’t disturb me till I ring.  No:  I’ll come for you.  Sleep is the best thing for him.”

“Sleep is the best thing for him,” said Sarah Woodham in a hoarse whisper, as she went slowly back into the hall, and then into the servants’ quarters, from whence, after a few minutes, she returned to go about in a silent way like a dark shadow, closing and fastening doors, before listening for awhile on the study mat, and then going into the dining-room, where she seated herself on one of the chairs, resting her chin upon her hands, and gazing straight before her in the darkness.  Then for a time all was still, save a low sigh, almost like a moan, which came from the suffering woman’s breast, followed by a shiver and a start, for it was as if the hand of the dead had just been laid upon her shoulder.