“Oh, I didn’t mean any criticism, Pelham. I’ll have a deuce of a time straightening things out with you. Awfully grateful. Old Tom has told me some and I’ve seen some too. And then there’s Paul.” He paused, looking steadfastly at the Colonel. “Don’t say a word about Paul. He has more than repaid any care we have given him. He is one of us, and very dear to us. Indeed, we would be only too glad to keep him with us,” said the Colonel, seeing an opening, as he thought. “We—my wife and I——” “He hasn’t been over,” said Gaspard. “Does he know I am home?” “No, he doesn’t know. Augusta thought—we thought till you had got things straightened out a bit we would not let him bother you.” “Ah—I see. Very considerate of you both. I appreciate it. It was better, of course. Must do something with that boy. He is what friend Barrie would call a ‘lad o’ pairts.’ But we’ll think of that again. A lot of things to do. My affairs are in a frightful mess. Have had a talk with Sleeman. Shrewd chap, Sleeman—devilish shrewd! Must see my banker. Oh, I hardly know where to begin. The old place has run a bit to seed. But I shall soon get it into shape. Some things I want to consult you about, old man—some developments that I have been planning.” So he rattled on, giving the Colonel no opportunity of speech, but rushing with feverish speed from one subject to another. They wandered about the stables, noting the decay on every hand, till as they passed beyond the paddock toward the hill Gaspard suddenly sat down upon a fallen tree. “Let’s—sit—a little,” he said, his breath coming quick. The Colonel, glancing at him, was shocked and startled at his appearance. His face was a ghastly, pallid yellow, his forehead heavily beaded with perspiration, his hands trembling. “You’re ill, Gaspard. What’s wrong? Feel faint? Let me get you something.” He set off toward the bungalow. “No, no—don’t go,” said Gaspard impatiently. “In—a moment—I shall be—all right. Don’t go—a little too much—excitement. Heart rotten—I think. Soon—be—fit.” He sat huddled forward on the tree trunk, his hands upon his knees, his eyes staring, fighting for breath. “Don’t worry,” he said, striving to smile. “I am often like this. Last—two days—like hell—again. Nerves all—shot to pieces. Sorry you—saw me—like this.” After some minutes’ rest, the spasm passed, the colour came back to his face, his breath came more evenly, his hands grew steady. He slid off the tree and lay quietly upon the ground.