There was a slight suggestion of the living Sir Roderick in the irritable peremptoriness of that abrupt dismissal of his faithful nurses; in his “What on earth are they doing? Why don’t they go?” as they arranged bottles, glasses, and gong on a table at Hugh’s elbow; and in his “Are they gone?” when the door shut upon them so softly that he could not hear it. “Of course they are gone.” Hugh bent over his former patient with a new, real tenderness. “I am here to do everything you wish me to do, Sir Roderick,” he said; “you have only to command.” “Everything!” said the invalid, hoarsely, with a searching look. “Everything that my conscience will allow me to do, Sir Roderick!” The old man laughed, or tried to laugh; but it was a curious rattling sound, at which Hugh involuntarily bit his lip. “That’s a dying laugh. Funny sound, isn’t it?” said Sir Roderick. Speech was evidently becoming more and more difficult. “Ugly sound; nasty feeling; choked feeling, too. I shall soon cast my chrysalis, Hamlet. I sha’n’t come to an end. No. I hope I shall be a poisonous serpent. Don’t look shocked. I want to sting human beings. They are worse than devils, if there were those fables. Yes, worse than devils,” he muttered, his eyes dimming with, Hugh feared, approaching coma. “Devils would be good if they could; men can be good, and won’t. I’m not dying, or going to sleep, Hamlet, so don’t look like that,” he suddenly said, in a voice so like his own, and with such reviving animation, that Hugh almost hoped that death was not imminent, despite appearances. “You clergyman’s son, you would like me to believe in devils, wouldn’t you? Well, I do. In human devils. And you must help me to punish them.” The last words were said dispassionately, gravely. What did he mean? The old man groped for Hugh’s hand, which was resting on the bed near to his own. Hugh clasped the icy, clammy fingers in his warm, living grasp. “Did you ever wonder why I wanted you here?” It was a question, sudden, and to the point. With those dying eyes riveted upon him, Hugh must answer with bare fact. “I did,” he acknowledged. “I can’t waste my minutes palavering,” said Sir Roderick, irritable as he recognised his utter helplessness. “I read you like a book. I wanted you for Lilia.” Hugh started, and flushed. The room seemed to sway and reel; he hardly knew whether he was shocked, hurt, delighted, or horrified. The possession of Lilia had been, so to say, hinted to him by his inclinations as something he might possibly dare to aspire to in the future. To have his ideal, as it were, snatched at, pounded together, and shot at him in this fashion was like being physically assaulted. He felt mentally wounded, but did not realise how or where. “I see you know what I mean,” went on the dying man. “You blush like a girl. Love is nonsense. But you have a passion for her——” “I love her!” interrupted Hugh. “I would not have dared—if you had not spoken.”