"Worse?" asked Rosewarne. "It is worse," answered the doctor gravely. "I knew it. One or two in my family have died in the same way. The pains are sharper of late, and more frequent." "You keep that little phial handy?" Rosewarne showed where it lay, close at hand in his watch-pocket. "How long?" he asked. "A few months, perhaps." The doctor seemed to hesitate. "And you won't answer for _that_?" "With care. It is folly for a man like you to be overworking." Rosewarne laughed grimly. "You're right there, and I've often enough asked myself why I do it. To what end, good Lord! But I'm taking no care, all the same. Good-bye." "Good-bye, my friend." The doctor did not remonstrate further. He knew his man. From Lockyer Street Rosewarne walked to his hotel, ordered a beef-steak and a pint of champagne, and lunched leisurably. Lunch over, he lit a cigar, and strolled in the direction of the Barbican. The streets were full of holiday-keepers, and he counted a dozen brakes full of workers pouring out of town to breathe the air of Dartmoor on this fine afternoon. He himself was conscious of elation. "I'll drink it regularly," he muttered to himself. "It's hard if a man with maybe a month more to live cannot afford himself champagne." The air in Southside Street differed from that of Dartmoor, being stuffy, not to say malodorous. He rapped on the door of a dingy office, and it was opened by his son, Mr. Samuel Rosewarne. "How d'ye do, Sam?" he nodded, not offering to shake hands. "All alone? That's right. I hope, by the way, I'm not depriving you of a holiday?" "I seldom take a holiday," Mr. Sam answered. The old man eyed him ironically. Mr. Sam wore a black suit, with some show of dingy white shirt-front, relieved by a wisp of black cravat and two onyx studs. His coat-cuffs were long and frayed, and his elastic-side boots creaked as he led the way to the office. In the office the old man came to business at once. "First of all," said he, with a nod toward the safe, "I'd like a glance into your books." "Certainly, sir," answered Mr. Sam, after a moment's hesitation. He unlocked the safe. "Do you wish to take the books in order? You will find it a long business." "Man, I don't propose to audit your accounts. If you let me pick and choose, half an hour will tell me all I want." Well knowing that his son detested the smell of tobacco, he pulled out another cigar and lit it. "You can open the window," said he, "if you prefer the smell of your street. Is this the pass-book?" For about three-quarters of an hour he ransacked the ledgers, tracking casual entries from one to another apparently at random. His fingers raced through the pages. Now and again he looked up to put a sharp question; and paused, drumming on the table while Mr. Sam explained. Once he said, "Bad debt? Not a bit; the man was right enough, if you had made inquiries." "I _did_ make inquiries."