The other, by a great effort, turned his heavy head and fixed his wistful eyes on him. "Mercy!" he whispered. "For her sake--give me--a little time!" "To slip your cable, I suppose," quoth Gunn. "Where's your money? Where's your hoard, you miser?" Mullet closed his eyes. He opened them again slowly and strove to think, while Gunn watched him narrowly. When he spoke, his utterance was thick and labored. "Come to-night," he muttered, slowly. "Give me--time--I will make your --your fortune. But the nurse-watches." "I'll see to her," said Gunn, with a grin. "But tell me now, lest you die first." "You will--let Joan--have a share?" panted the innkeeper. "Yes, yes," said Gunn, hastily. The innkeeper strove to raise himself in the bed, and then fell back again exhausted as Joan's step was heard on the stairs. Gunn gave a savage glance of warning at him, and barring the progress of the girl at the door, attempted to salute her. Joan came in pale and trembling, and falling on her knees by the bedside, took her father's hand in hers and wept over it. The innkeeper gave a faint groan and a shiver ran through his body. It was nearly an hour after midnight that Nick Gunn, kicking off his shoes, went stealthily out onto the landing. A little light came from the partly open door of the sick-room, but all else was in blackness. He moved along and peered in. The nurse was siting in a high-backed oak chair by the fire. She had slipped down in the seat, and her untidy head hung on her bosom. A glass stood on the small oak table by her side, and a solitary candle on the high mantel-piece diffused a sickly light. Gunn entered the room, and finding that the sick man was dozing, shook him roughly. The innkeeper opened his eyes and gazed at him blankly. "Wake, you fool," said Gunn, shaking him again. The other roused and muttered something incoherently. Then he stirred slightly. "The nurse," he whispered. "She's safe enow," said Gunn. "I've seen to that." He crossed the room lightly, and standing before the unconscious woman, inspected her closely and raised her in the chair. Her head fell limply over the arm. "Dead?" inquired Mullet, in a fearful whisper. "Drugged," said Gunn, shortly. "Now speak up, and be lively." The innkeeper's eyes again travelled in the direction of the nurse. "The men," he whispered; "the servants." "Dead drunk and asleep," said Gunn, biting the words. "The last day would hardly rouse them. Now will you speak, damn you!" "I must--take care--of Joan," said the father. Gunn shook his clenched hand at him. "My money--is--is--" said the other. "Promise me on--your oath--Joan." "Ay, ay," growled Gunn; "how many more times? I'll marry her, and she shall have what I choose to give her. Speak up, you fool! It's not for you to make terms. Where is it?" He bent over, but Mullet, exhausted with his efforts, had closed his eyes again, and half turned his head.