He laid his hand upon the sleeper's shoulder. The touch was a light one, but it was sufficient to arouse her. With a start she sprang up to a sitting posture, crying-- "You shan't! It's a lie! You shan't." She put her hand to her bodice, as if to guard something which was hidden there. The doctor said nothing; he stood and watched. Waking to a clearer sense of her surroundings, she perceived him standing by her side. "Oh, it's you. How long have I been asleep?" "Sufficiently long, I hope, to rest you. Will you allow me to introduce myself? My name is Twelves--David Twelves, M.D., of Edinburgh. May I ask if you have any objection to introduce yourself to me, and tell me your name?" "Not the least; why should I have? I'm not ashamed of my name. Why do you want to know it?" "Because the immediate object of my presence here is to make you what is to all intents and purposes an offer of, say, twenty thousand pounds, and I have a not unnatural desire to know to whom I am offering it." She sat more upright on the couch, swinging round so as to bring her feet upon the floor, looking at him with eyes which were now wide open. "What do you mean? You are making fun of me." "I am doing nothing of the kind. This is likely to be one of the most serious moments of your life. I am not disposed to lighten it by misplaced attempts at playfulness." Yet even as he spoke again that nebulous smile seemed to add another pucker to his cheeks. "What I say is said very much in earnest. There is a man upstairs who's dying. Perhaps he is already dead while I stand here talking to you. If he's not dead, before he dies he wants another curious thing--a wife." "A wife!--and you say he's dying!" "It's because he's dying that he wants her. He has had no need of such an encumbrance living. I have come to ask you if you'll be his wife." "I be his wife!" Instinctively she doubled up the finger on which was the wedding-ring. She still wore her gloves, so it had remained unnoticed. "Yes, you. You're the only woman within reach, except old Nannie, who hardly counts, or I wouldn't trouble you. Answer me shortly--yes or no--will you be his wife?" "Marry a perfect stranger!--a man I've never seen!--who you say is dying!" "Precisely; it is a mere formula to which I'm asking your subscription. He'll certainly be dead inside two hours, possibly in very much less. You'll be a widow in one of the shortest times on record; in possession of a wife's share of all his worldly goods--and that, by all accounts, should be worth fully twenty thousand pounds." "Twenty thousand pounds! But why should he want to marry any one if he's dying?" "There's not much time for explanation, but I'll explain this much. He's made a will in favour of a certain person. That will he is anxious to revoke. If he marries it will become invalid. As matters stand it will be easier for him to take a wife than to make another will." "You are sure he will be dead within two hours?"