“He seemed a little stronger, but I knew the recovery could only be fictitious. Then he went on,— “‘Will you do something else for me?’ “‘Of course I will,’ I answered, ‘anything you ask.’ “‘My wife ...’ he murmured. “‘Your _wife_?’ I said. “‘She’s in London,’ he whispered, and he gave me the address, dragging it up out of the depths of his memory. “In London! Even in that dim room, with the dying man there beneath my hand, I felt my heart bound with a physical sensation. “‘Just tell her,’ he added; ‘she won’t mind. She won’t make you a scene.’ “He was silent then, but drank a great draught of water. “‘Is there any one else?’ I asked. “His head moved very feebly in the negative on the pillow. “‘And what am I to do with your things?’ I asked lastly. “‘Look through them,’ he breathed; ‘nothing private. Give the fragments to the British Museum. I’ve made a will about money.’ “‘And your personal things? Would you like me to give them to your wife?’ “‘Oh, no,’ he said wearily, ‘’tisn’t worth while.’ Then after a long pause in which he seemed to be meditating, he said, with evidently unconscious pathos, ‘I don’t know.... Better throw them away.’ V “MacPherson died that night about an hour before the doctor came; Marco and the doctor had missed each other, and had missed the trains, but the doctor reassured me that I had done all that was possible, and that had he arrived by midday he could not have saved MacPherson’s life. “‘I suppose you will want to bring him down to the English cemetery at Smyrna?’ he said, with an offer of help tripping on the heels of his remark. He looked horrified when I told him of MacPherson’s wish and of my intention of carrying it out. “‘But no priest, I am afraid, will consent to read the burial service over him under those conditions,’ he said primly. “‘Then I will read it myself,’ I replied in a firm voice. “‘You must please yourself about that,’ said the doctor, giving it up. His attitude towards me, which had started by being sympathetic, was now changing subtly to a slight impatience. He took out his watch. ‘I am afraid I ought to be going,’ he remarked, ‘if I am to catch the last train down to Smyrna, and there seems to be nothing more I can do for you here. There will have to be a certificate of death, of course; I will send you that. And if you like I will stop in the village on the way, and send some one up to you; you understand me—a layer-out.’ “I said that I should be much obliged to him, and, accompanying him as far as the front door, I watched him go with Marco and a lantern, the little parallelogram of yellow light criss-crossed with black lines, swaying to and fro in the night.