"Rich, it is your doing, not mine!" he cried wildly. "What are the diamonds to the loss of you?" "But, Mark," she cried impetuously, "this is madness. You suspect him. You shall speak now--you shall. You have thought my father did this thing?" "You drag it from me," he groaned. "I do." "Oh, shame!" cried Richmond, shrinking from him; "to suspect the poor old man, who nearly died in your defence." "What!" cried Mark. "Whom we found struck down bleeding, and whom I am neglecting now, when he is hovering almost between life and death--neglecting that I might come to him whom I thought the soul of chivalry and faith." "Stop!" cried Mark, in a harsh voice, as he released Rich, who straggled from him, and stood with his hands pressed to his eyes. "Janet, I have been off my head. I seem to think wildly now and then. Do I hear her aright, or am I still confused? What does she say?" "I--I don't quite know myself," faltered Janet, bursting into tears. "And yet I seem to understand," cried Mark excitedly. "Rich dearest, speak to me again. Your father found--struck down--in my defence?" "Yes, that is what I said," replied Rich coldly. "Struck down in my defence. I did not know of this." "You--you knew he was very ill," sobbed Janet. "Yes; but I knew no more." "How could we tell you when you were nearly dead?" sobbed Janet; "and the doctor said you were not to be troubled in any way." Mark Heath stood as if dazed for a few minutes, striving to think coherently, and master the delusion, under which he had been suffering. "Rich," he cried at last, "for God's sake, tell me all!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A PHYSICIAN UNHEALED. James Poynter sat polishing his hat with his handkerchief, and staring at Hendon with a contraction, half smile, half grin, upon his face. "I tell you I can't pay you. You forced the money upon me." "I forced it on you! Come, that's a good one! Now, are you going to pay?" "You know I can't, Poynter. You must wait." "Not likely. Well, I must have my money, and what your father owes me too." "I have only your word that he does owe you money, James Poynter." "All right, Mr Hendon; go on. Insult me. The more patient I am the more advantage you take. Ask him if he don't." "Ask him?" said the young man bitterly; "you know his mind is as good as gone." "Is it as bad as that?" said Poynter, with assumed pity, but his eyes twinkling with eagerness, as he wound the handkerchief round and round. "Bad? Yes. Millington, our best man, saw him yesterday, and he says nothing but an operation and raising the bone pressing on the brain will relieve him; and at his age he would not be responsible for the result." Poynter drew a breath fall of satisfaction, and smiled at his polished hat. "Well, I think the operation ought to be performed, so as to bring him to his senses again. Poor old boy! He does seem queer. I asked him--"