“Gold--gold--gold! You think of nothing else! Curse the gold! Find it and keep it. It is the flask I want!” His voice sank to a whisper, his face had grown suddenly moist. “Dick, I’m afraid of death. God! You don’t know how afraid! The fear of it haunts me day and night--I sit here counting the hours, wondering at which my spirit will go from me! You’ll laugh--at that--laugh, laugh!” But Dick Alford’s face was set, unsmiling. “I do not laugh--but can’t you see, Harry, that such a thing as an elixir of life is preposterous?” “Why?” Lord Chelford’s eyes were shining. “Why shouldn’t this discovery have been made by the ancient civilizations? Why is it more wonderful than wireless telegraphy or the disintegration of atoms? Thirty years ago flying was regarded as a miracle. The flask--I want the flask of Life Water! The gold--throw it into the road--let the poor devils take it who want it. I want life--do you understand?--life and the end of fear.” He dropped heavily into his chair and wiped his streaming forehead. “The end of fear!” he muttered. Dick listened, his eyes never leaving his brother’s face. And this was to be Leslie Gwyn’s husband. He shivered at the thought. V If the Honourable Richard Fallington Alford had been regarded by the compilers of such volumes as being sufficiently important to have his biography enshrined in a popular work of reference, his life’s work, his hobby, and his recreation would be described as “looking after the Chelford estates.” His bailiffs said he knew every blade of grass; the tenant farmers swore he could price a standing crop to the last penny of its worth. He knew Fossaway Manor, its strength and weakness, better than the estate architect--could point out where the foundations were scamped by the Elizabethan builders. He could trace the walls of the old castle which Richard of York had burnt and razed, beheading the fourth earl for his treachery under the great archway, one crumbling pier of which still showed its gray and battered head above the roses that now surrounded it. He gave to the broad lands of Chelford a loyal and passionate devotion which any mistress might envy. In the chill of an autumnal morning, when mist blanketed the hollows and a pale sun was struggling through thin clouds, he strolled across the park toward the Abbey ruins. There was little of them left. A truncated tower wrecked by lightning; a high, arched space where an oriel window had once flamed; mounds of scattered stones left where Cromwell’s soldiers had overturned them; and, under the carpet of grass, a “feel” of solid pavement. He drew at his pipe as he stepped out, and the tobacco smelt sweet and wholesome in the cold air. He was on his way to the home farm, and his errand was a prosaic one. A cow had died in the night, and his cowman had reported symptoms of cattle fever.