The clock was striking twelve the following day when Dr. Jago rang at the door of the Hall. He was a little, dark-featured, foreign-looking man of thirty, with a black moustache and a pointed beard, and small restless eyes that seemed never to look stedfastly at anything or anybody, imparting an impression of being always on his guard. He had come to Nullington about a year ago, a stranger to everyone in it, and had started there in practice. His charges were low, and his patients chiefly those who could not afford to pay much in the shape of doctors' bills. But Dr. Spreckley was an elderly man, and Dr. Downes might be considered an old man, so there was no knowing what might happen in the course of a few years. Meanwhile Theophilus Jago possessed his soul in patience, and made ends meet as best he could. It was a great event in his life to be sent for by the Master of Heron Dyke. "You are Dr. Jago, I think?" began the Squire, who was again in bed; and the Doctor bowed assent. "I and my medical attendant, Dr. Spreckley, have had a slight difference of opinion. In all probability he will not visit me again, and I have sent for you in the hope that we may get on better together than Spreckley and I did." "I am flattered by your preference, sir. You may rely upon my doing my best to serve you in every way." "Probably you may have heard that I have been ill for a long time--people will talk--and, as a medical man, you most likely are aware of the nature of my complaint?" Dr. Jago admitted this. "I had a bad attack two days ago. Yesterday I asked Spreckley whether I should last over the twenty-fourth of next April. He told me that I could do so only by a miracle. He says I can't live, and I say that I must and will live over the date in question." "And you have sent for me to--to----?" "To keep me alive. Spreckley can't do it. You must. Now, don't say another word till you have examined me." Not another word did Dr. Jago utter for a quarter of an hour, beyond asking certain questions in connection with the malady. This over, he sat down by the bedside and drew a long breath. "Well, what's the verdict? Out with it," added the Squire grimly, the old hungry, wistful look rising in his eyes. "I suppose you want to hear the truth and nothing but the truth, Mr. Denison?" said Dr. Jago. "That is precisely what I do want to hear. Why not?" "Then, sir, I think it most probable that Dr. Spreckley is correct. I fear I can only confirm his opinion." There was a moment or two of silence. "Then you say, with him, that I shall not live to see the twenty-fourth of April?" "There is, of course, a possibility that you may do so," replied Dr. Jago, "but the probabilities are all the other way. I am very sorry, sir, to have to tell you this." "Keep your sorrow until you are asked for it," returned the Squire, drily. "Perhaps you will pour me out half a glass of that Madeira. I am not so strong as I should like to be."