‘From that hour I formed my life on a new plan,’ continued the old man, with a subdued energy that approached the terrible, a concentration of purpose that seemed fierce as the glow of metal at a white heat. ‘From that hour I lived but in the expectation of such a meeting as this. You left me poor. I swore to become rich, only for the sake of such a meeting as this. I toiled and schemed; lent money at usury, and was pitiless to the victims who borrowed; denied myself the common necessities of life, ay, shortened my days; all for such an hour as this. You would come back to me, I told myself, if I grew rich, as you have come; you would crawl, as you have crawled; you would sue for pardon, with hate and scorn in your heart, as you have sued; and I should answer you as I do to-night. Not a sixpence that I have scraped together shall ever be yours; not a penny that I have toiled for shall buy a crust to ward off your hour of starvation. I have found another son. I have made a will, safe and sure; not a will that your ingenuity can upset when I am mouldering in my grave—a will leaving all I possess away from you, and imposing on those that come after me the condition that no sixpence of mine shall ever reach you. After death, as in life, I will punish you for the iniquity that turned a father’s love to hate.’ ‘Madman,’ cried Ferdinand Sivewright, ‘do you think your will shall ever see the light of day, or you survive this night? I did not win my way to this room to be laughed at or defied. You have disinherited me, have you? I’m glad you told me that. You have adopted another man for your son, and made a will in his favour. I’m very glad you told me that. I wish him joy of his inheritance. You have chosen your fate. It might have been life: I came here to give you a fair chance. You choose death.’ There was a hurried movement, the swift flash of a narrow pointed knife, that kind of knife by which Sheffield makes murder easy. But ere that deadly point could reach its mark a door was flung open, there came a hurried tread of feet, and two men were grappling with each other by the bedside, with that shining blade held high above the head of both. Rapid as Ferdinand’s movement had been towards the bed, Lucius had been quick enough to intercept him. By the bedside of the intended victim the two men struggled, one armed with that keen knife, the other defenceless. The struggle was for mastery of the weapon. Lucius seized the murderer’s right wrist with his left hand, and held it aloft. Not long could he have retained that fierce grip, but here his professional skill assisted him. His right hand was happily free. While they were struggling, he took a lancet from his waistcoat-pocket, and with one rapid movement cut a vein in that uplifted wrist. The knife dropped like a stone from Ferdinand Sivewright’s relaxing grasp, and a shower of blood came down upon the surgeon and his adversary. ‘I think I have the best of you now,’ said Lucius.