Tom was about to repeat the inquiry, when all at once Preston collapsed in a heap, his head falling forward heavily on to the table. Instantly his servant sprang to his assistance. Thinking he must have fainted, though never before had he known him to faint, the man loosened his collar, then ran quickly away and returned with water with which he began to bathe his master’s temples and the back of his neck. Thus he continued for some minutes, at the end of which time Preston began slowly to recover consciousness. Soon he looked into Tom’s face, then gripped his hand tightly. “Tom,” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “I have had bad news, very bad news. I may be in great difficulties soon, and you are about the only man who will then be able to help me. I can trust you implicitly, eh, Tom?” He gave the man a searching look, with an expression in his eyes which Tom had never seen there before. Though only his servant, Tom had come to be looked upon by Preston, who had so often faced death with him, as a personal friend. “I think so, sir,” he answered grimly. “Do you feel a little better now, sir?” “Yes, I’m all right. Tell me who handed you the letter you gave me just now?” Tom described the appearance of the man in flannels. “Did he say anything?” “No, sir. Only asked me to be sure to give it to you the moment you returned, as it was very urgent. I was to give it to you myself, sir.” He turned, opened a little cupboard in the corner, and took out a tantalus and a siphon. “You had better drink this, sir,” and he handed his master a stiff brandy and soda. “Thank you, Tom.” When he had emptied the tumbler, Preston looked better. “Miss Hagerston must know nothing about my being taken ill,” he said. “She shall not, sir.” “Or that I received a letter brought by hand.” “She shall not, sir.” “Tom, is my little automatic anywhere about?” The man glanced at him suspiciously. A thought had flashed into his mind, but the next moment he had dismissed it, and replied: “Yes, sir, I have it.” “Keep it loaded, will you?” “Yes, sir.” “And now you can go to bed, Tom. I hope you will manage to sleep on that chair.” “We have both of us slept in worse places than that, sir,” and he smiled grimly at the recollection. “Will you be all right now, sir?” “Quite all right. I think the heat upset me. Good night, Tom.” “Good night, sir.” “The heat!” Tom murmured as he rolled himself up in his blanket in the deck-chair. “I _don’t_ think!” CHAPTER XVIII. WHAT DOCTOR JOHNSON KNEW. There had been several rather startling suicides during the season which was now ending, of men and women of social standing, and in every case the usual verdict had been returned. The events had created a certain amount of interest; theories to account for the tragedies had been advanced; then the nine days’ wonder had subsided and London life had gone on again as usual.