"The Vicar?" asked Mallow, gazing into Timson's red face--red with pulling; "how is he getting along?" Timson was a pessimist, with a high average of deaths amongst his patients. He shook his flaxen locks dolefully. "Very bad, Mr. Mallow; I don't suppose he'll see the winter through. His heart is weak--very weak. Nasty murmur there--mitral valve wrong; any sudden shock--in fact, emotion of any kind--and he's done for," said Timson, solemnly. "But under normal conditions, doctor, he'll pull through, won't he?" "Oh, may last for a time; but he's bound to go--bound to go. The leg is obstinate, too. If he'd only rest, there might be a chance; but he goes on writing, writing." Laurence pricked up his ears. "Writing! What is he writing?" "Some sort of diary, I should think--pages and pages of it. To make matters worse, he uses a cipher. Very bad for him that, you know--very bad. By the way," added the little man, "I hear poor old Drabble is taken." "He is blown to bits, if that is what you mean by 'taken,'" said Mallow, grimly; "he played with fire once too often." Timson sighed. "I know that he held pernicious doctrines, Mr. Mallow, and his medical methods were not such as I could endorse. I've taken over a good many of his patients. They are in a sad state--a sad, sad state!" and he shook his little head again. "Poor Drabble! Ah! well, we must all come to it." "But not necessarily in the same way, I trust. Well, good day, Mr. Timson." As the doctor's animal stumbled down the hill, Mallow, climbing upward, felt somewhat uneasy at the news of Mr. Brock's industry. It might be that there was yet more to tell of Bellairs' wickedness, and Mallow fancied that the vicar might be setting it down in black and white. "Precious queer amusement for a clergyman on the point of death, anyhow," he muttered to himself. "He has no relative that his scribbling is likely to interest, that I know of." That same evening, leaving Aldean and Tui at whist with the old ladies, he led Olive into the library. "I want to talk to you, Olive about this money. You were saying something the other day about getting rid of it." "Yes; I wouldn't use it for the world. Thirty thousand of it has gone with Clara and Boldini to South America. I want to give the remaining twenty back to the Indian Government." "H'm; the Government will ask questions. We don't want that." "Can't it be returned as conscience-money?" "Even so, I fancy, some explanation would be necessary. It is a large sum, you see. Besides, there is another point which you have overlooked. The money--or, rather, what is left of it--is not yours." "Not mine? Then whose is it?" "You forget the will, Olive. In the event of your not marrying Carson, the money was to go to Mr. Brock. Well, as a matter of fact, the provisions of the will not being complied with, that is where it ought to go." "He can have it, with pleasure; but I feel sure he won't touch it now."