"Horace North!" cried the curate indignantly. "Sit down, and none of your gammon, you transparent old humbug! Why, I can see right through you, just as if you were so much glass." Salis had pushed back his chair, and now rose, just as North burst out passionately: "No, no, Salis; don't go--for pity's sake don't go. I have so much to say to you." "If it is of a piece with what you have already said, Horace North, I would prefer to be ignorant of its import." The doctor had risen too, and caught the back of his chair, which he stood grasping with spasmodic force, as, suffering an agony he could not have expressed, he saw his friend stalk solemnly along the path to the great gate, which swung after him to and fro for some seconds before the iron latch closed with a loud click. "Heaven help me!--what shall I do?" groaned North, as he threw himself upon the couch, and covered his face with his hands. "What does this mean? What new horror is this? Have I lost all power over thought and tongue?" "May I clear away, sir?" said a sharp, clear voice. North started as if he had been stung, but he did not uncover his face; and he dared not speak, lest words should gush forth for which he could not hold himself accountable--and to Mrs Milt! Under the circumstances, he nodded his head quickly, and lay back with his eyes closed. "You do too much, sir," said the housekeeper, speaking authoritatively. "You work too hard." North's irritability was terrible, but he kept it down. "It's my impression that you're going to be ill," continued Mrs Milt, as she went on clearing the table. Strange words seemed to be effervescing in Horace North's breast, and he set his teeth hard, for he felt that if he spoke he should say something which would horrify the old housekeeper and startle himself. "Well, you can't blame me," cried Mrs Milt, going out and shutting the door too sharply to be polite. North was alone, and he rose up with his hands clenched to utter words of wonder as to what his friend would think; but, instead, he burst into a curious fit of laughter and uttered a mocking curse. The next moment he had sunk back upon his couch with his hands clasped, as he gazed with bent head straight before him between his thick brows, right away into the future, and mentally asking himself what that future was to be. END OF VOLUME TWO. Volume 3, Chapter I. AN UNSUITABLE MESSENGER. "Hartley, you horrify me," said Mary, after she had listened to her brother's account of his visit. "He must have been ill or under some strange influence." "Influence?" cried Salis drily; "well, that means drink, Mary." "Oh, no, no, no!" cried the poor girl warmly. "He told you he was ill, and he may have been taking some very potent medicine." "Extremely," said Salis.