He propped open the door as he spoke. His face was very grave. "Remember," he said, "that the banging of this door or any sudden sound may mean the end." "Is he so bad then?" said Bertie, speaking with effort. "He is very bad indeed," the doctor answered. "The operation has been a protracted one. If he lives, it will be a success. But there is great weakness of the heart's action. Any moment may be the last. Dr. Capper will not leave him at present. Your brother is there too." He paused a moment. "Your brother is a wonderful man," he said, with the air of a man bestowing praise against his will. "If you will be good enough to order some refreshment I will take it in. On no account is Mr. Errol's servant to go near." Slowly the hours of a day that seemed endless dragged away. Bertie went home to his wife in the afternoon, taking Tawny Hudson, subdued and wretched, with him. In the evening he returned, the man still following him like a pariah dog, to find the situation unaltered. Capper and Nap were still with Lucas, whose life hung by a thread. Bertie decided to remain for the night, and at a late hour he saw Capper for a moment. The great man's face was drawn and haggard. "He won't last through the night," he said. "Tell the ladies to be in readiness. I will send for them if there is time." "No hope whatever?" said Bertie. Capper shook his head. "I fear--none. He is just running down--sinking. I think you had better not come in, but stay within call." He was gone again, and Bertie was left to give his message, and then to wait in anguish of spirit for the final call. The night was still. Only the draught from the wide-flung doors and windows stirred through the quiet rooms. Mrs. Errol and Anne shared Bertie's vigil in the room that opened out of that in which Lucas Errol was making his last stand. Humbly, in a corner, huddled Tawny Hudson, rocking himself, but making no sound. Within the room Capper sat at the foot of the bed, motionless, alert as a sentry. A nurse stood like a statue, holding back the bellying window-curtain. And on his knees beside the bed, the inert wrists gripped close in his sinewy fingers, was Nap. The light of a shaded lamp shone upon his dusky face, showing the gleam of his watchful eyes, the crude lines of jaw and cheek-bone. He looked like a figure carved in bronze. For hours he had knelt so in unceasing vigilance, gazing unblinking and tireless at the exhausted face upon the pillow. It might have been the face of a dead man upon which he gazed, but the pulses that fluttered in his hold told him otherwise. Lucas still held feebly, feebly, to his chain. It was nearly an hour after midnight that a voice spoke in the utter silence. "Boney!" "I'm here, old chap." "Good-bye, dear fellow!" It was scarcely more than a whisper. It seemed to come from closed lips. "Open your eyes," said Nap. Slowly the heavy lids opened. The blue eyes met the deep, mysterious gaze focussed upon them.