"O, no; not for me," said he. "My brother will let me out. Good-night, Mrs Berry!" And the doctor's voice was soft and amiable. "Good-night, sir!" said the woman, and then the door closed. There was once more the rustle in the passage, the sound of a chain and bolts being shot somewhere in the back, the closing of a door, which sent a hollow echo through the deserted house; and then there was silence--a stillness that was quite oppressive; for Octavius lived with but one servant here at the Grange, a middle-aged woman, who attended to the whole of his simple wants. And now the wind sighed mournfully through the trees, a few spots of rain pattered against the window, and the doctor thought uneasily of his long walk home, but not for long, for, softly rubbing his hands, he now turned once more to the decanter. "A good glass of wine, brother. I think I'll take another," he said unctuously; but there was no reply. So the doctor took another; and then, after thoroughly enjoying that glass, another; when now feeling decidedly comfortable, and that the awkward, sharp-cornered, acid crystals his brother's words had caused to form in his nature were dissolved by the good wine, he rose, smiling, put the decanter carefully away, and began to don his overcoat, which lay across a chair. It is possible that had the doctor been less intent upon his thoughts and the wine, he might have heard something more than the pattering of a drop or two of rain upon the window, the soughing of the wind, and the regular "tick-tick" of his own large gold watch--a something that sounded like the working of a sharp gimlet boring through the panel of a door, cautiously and softly, to render that door pervious to a sharp, bright eye; but the doctor heard no sound, and turning towards Octavius, he said, "Good-night, Brother Octy!" There was no answer, and the doctor repeated his valediction, but still without effect; so he knocked the glass over, making it jingle loudly against the lamp, and still Octavius did not move. Doctor Hardon's forehead grew damp again, but very slightly now; he drew out his watch--it was half-past eleven, and he was surprised to see how the time had gone. He walked round in his soft, silent way, in those boots of his that never creaked, to the fireplace on the other side of his brother; took the phial, removed the stopper, and smelt at the contents; replaced the bottle, and after looking in the withered face for a few moments, he lightly rested a finger upon the uncovered wrist before him. Apparently satisfied, he leaned over the fire where the signet-ring had been cast; then stooped to pick up the tongs, but shook his head, rose again, and stepping silently towards the door, he gave one glance at the bureau, when his toe struck something, kicking it along the carpet.