Boone started up in his bed and stared wildly at some object which appeared to be at the foot of the bed. Gorman started too, and turned pale as his eyes followed those of the invalid. "What is it you see, Boone?" "There, there!" he whispered hoarsely, clutching Gorman's arm as if for protection, "look, I heard his voice just now; oh! save me from that man; he--he--wants to kill me!" "Come, David," said Gorman soothingly, "it's only a fancy--there's nobody there--nobody in the room but me." "And who are you?" inquired the sick man, falling back exhausted, while he gazed vacantly at his friend. "Don't you know me, David?" "Never mind, shut your eyes now and try to sleep. It'll be time to take your physic soon." "Physic!" cried Boone, starting up in alarm, and again clutching Gorman's arm. "You won't let _him_ give it me, will you? Oh! say you won't--promise to give it me yourself!" Gorman promised, and a very slight but peculiar smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he did so. Boone again sank back on his pillow, and Gorman sat down on a chair beside him. His villainous features worked convulsively, for in his heart he was meditating a terrible deed. That morning he had been visited by Ned Hooper, who in the most drunken of voices told him, "that it wash 'mposh'ble to git a body f'r love or munny, so if 'e wanted one he'd better cut's own throat." His plans having miscarried in this matter, Gorman now meditated taking another and more decided step. He looked at the sick man, and, seeing how feeble he was, his fingers twitched as if with a desire to strangle him. So strong was the feeling upon him that he passed his fingers nervously about his own throat, as if to ascertain the formation of it and the precise locality of the windpipe. Then his hand dropped to his side, and he sat still again, while Boone rolled his poor head from side to side and moaned softly. Evening drew on apace, and the shadows in the sick-room gradually became deeper and deeper until nothing could be seen distinctly. Still Gorman sat there, with his features pale as death, and his fingers moving nervously; and still the sick man lay and rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. Once or twice Gorman rose abruptly, but he as often sat down again without doing anything. Suddenly a ray of bright light shot through the window. Gorman started and drew back in alarm. It was only a lamp-lighter who had lighted one of the street-lamps, and the ray which he had thus sent into the sick-chamber passed over the bed. It did not disturb Boone, for the curtains were between him and it, but it disturbed Gorman, for it fell on the chimney-piece and illuminated a group of phials, one of which, half full of a black liquid, was labelled "_Poison_!"