"Wot is it?" whined the sick engineer. "Carn't yer leave me in peace? Wot is it, I s'y?" For the third time in his life McAllister's heart nearly stopped beating at the sound of that voice. It was, however, unmistakable. Should it come from the heavens above, or the caverns of the hills, or the waters beneath the earth, it could originate in but one unique, extraordinary individual--Wilkins! It was a startling complication, and for an instant McAllister's brain refused to cope with the situation. "You really must pardon us!" Herbert began, "but we've come to see if you wouldn't sell some of your Golden Touch mining stock." "'Oly Moses!" wailed the sick engineer, turning his head to the wall. "Oh, my leg! Wot do you come 'ere for, about stock, when I'm almost dead? Go aw'y, I s'y!" McAllister pulled himself together. He had intended buying the stock, and on returning to the company's offices to have Conville arrest Herbert and the Colonel, without bothering about the sick engineer. He was pretty sure he had evidence enough. But now, with Wilkins to assist him, he undoubtedly could force a confession from them both. "Go ahead," he whispered to Herbert; "I'm no good at that sort of thing." So Mr. Herbert started in to persuade his invalid confederate to part with his valueless stock for McAllister's money. He waxed eloquent over the glories of the Continent and the miraculous cures effected at Baden-Baden, as well as upon the uncertainties of this life, and mining stock in particular. Meanwhile the sick man tossed in agony upon his pallet and cursed the inconsiderate strangers who forced their selfish interests upon him at such a moment. Outside the door the nurse coughed impatiently. At last, after an unusually persistent harangue on the part of Herbert, the invalid, inveighing against the sciatica that had placed him thus at their mercy, and more to get rid of them than anything else, reluctantly yielded. Fumbling among the bed-clothes, he produced a soiled certificate, which he smoothed out and regarded sadly. "'Ere, tyke it," he muttered. "Tyke it! Gimme yer money, an' go aw'y!" As yet he had not recognized McAllister, who had remained partially concealed behind his companion. "Now's your chance!" whispered the latter. "Take it while you can get it. Where's the money?" McAllister drew out the bills, which crackled deliciously in his hands, and stepped square in front of the sick engineer, between him and Herbert. "Mr. Murphy"--he spoke the words slowly and distinctly--"I'm the person who's buying your stock. This gentleman has merely interested me in the proposition." Then, fixing his eyes directly on those of Wilkins, he held out the bills. A look of terror came over the face of the valet, and he half-raised himself from the pillow as he stared horrified at his former master. Then he sank back, and turned away his head. "Now answer me a few questions," continued McAllister. "Are you the bona fide owner of this stock?"