“The governor's worse to-day, Massingbred,” said he, with a sigh. “No serious change, I hope?” said Jack. “I suspect there is, though,” replied the other. “They sent for me from Lescour's last night, where I was winning smartly. Just like _my_ luck always, to be called away when I was 'in vein,' and when I got here, I found Schubart, and a French fellow whom I don't know, had just bled him. It must have been touch and go, for when I saw him he was very ill--very ill indeed--and they call him better.” “It was a distinct attack, then,--a seizure of some sort?” asked Massingbred. “Yes, I think they said so,” said he, lighting his cigar. “But he has rallied, has n't he?” “Well, I don't fancy he has. He lifts his eyes at times, and seems to look about for some one, and moves his lips a little, but you could scarcely say that he was conscious, though my mother insists he is.” “What does Schubart think?” “Who minds these fellows?” said he, impatiently. “They're only speculating on what will be said of themselves, and so they go on: 'If this does not occur, and the other does not happen, we shall see him better this evening.'” “This is all very bad,” said Massingbred, gloomily--“It's a deuced deal worse than you know of, old fellow,” said Martin, bitterly. “Perhaps not worse than I suspect,” said Massingbred. “What do you mean by that?” Massingbred did not reply, but sat deep in thought for some time. “Come, Martin,” said he, at last, “let us be frank; in a few hours it may be, perhaps, too late for frankness. Is this true?” And he handed to him Merl's pocket-book, open at a particular page. Martin took it, and as his eyes traced the lines a sickly paleness covered his features, and in a voice scarcely stronger than an infant's, he said, “It is so.” “The whole reversionary right?” “Every acre--every stick and stone of it--except,” added he, with a sickly attempt at a smile, “a beggarly tract, near Kiltimmon, Mary has a charge upon.” “Read that, now,” said Jack, handing him his recently written letter. “I was about to send it without showing it to you; but it is as well you saw it.” While Martin was reading, Massingbred never took his eyes from him. He watched with all his own practised keenness the varying emotions the letter cost; but he saw that, as he finished, selfishness had triumphed, and that the prospect of safety had blunted every sentiment as to the price. “Well,” said Jack, “what say you to that?” “I say it's a right good offer, and on no account to be refused. There is some hitch or other--I can't say what, but it exists, I know--which ties us up against selling. Old Repton and the governor, and I think my mother, too, are in the secret; but I never was, so that Scanlan's proposal is exactly what meets the difficulty.” “But do you like his conditions?” asked Jack.