“Won’t last the night,” remarked a third. “Well, I never did like Gilchrist—never; but, all the same, I’m deuced sorry for him now, poor chap. For oh, by Jove! it’s a fearful thing when you come to that.” And then they fell into silence again, waiting for Bootles to come back. Half an hour passed—three-quarters; then Bootles did not come. An hour; then Bootles appeared—came with a white face and a scared look in his blue eyes, followed by the doctor who had fetched him. Every man in the room was roused from a lounging attitude to one of expectation and surprise. “Bootles,” said Lacy, moving towards him. But Bootles did not even look at him. He turned to the doctor and uttered words the like of which none of his hearers had ever heard from him before. “I kept my temper, doctor—you think I did? I know the man’s dying. Yes, I know, and I shouldn’t like to think I lost my temper with a poor chap who was dying, but—but—No; I won’t say a word. I’ll go away and keep to myself until I’ve got over it a little. If I stop here I shall say something I shall be sorry for all the rest of my life.” “What is it, Bootles?” broke in Lacy, in his soft voice. But Bootles did not reply for a moment. He stood still, trying hard to control himself; but Lacy, who had laid his hand upon his sleeve, felt that he was shaking from head to foot, and his very lips were trembling. “Tell us,” said Lacy, persuasively. “What is it?” “He is Mignon’s father!” Bootles answered. And then he broke from Lacy’s grasp and fled. “Impossible!” Lacy cried. “Not at all; it is true,” the doctor answered. “He is making his will now, leaving Bootles sole guardian and trustee to the child.” “The brute,” burst out Preston, indignantly, remembering Gilchrist’s words—not so long ago. [Picture: A race between life and death] “Hush, hush! The man is dying, and death alters everything,” the doctor cried. “And Bootles kept his temper? Said nothing?” “Not one word—of reproach.” “Has he seen her?” “No. He would not, though Bootles asked him.” “His own child—and she Miss Mignon!” “All the better. She cannot endure him.” “By Jove! But what a blow for Bootles!” “How will he take it? Will it make any difference?” “As wregards Miss Mignon? What wrot you talk. As if Bootles—” But there Lacy broke off in disgust, and the babel of surmises, questions, and answers went on. And that night Gavor Gilchrist died. CHAPTER IX.