“There was a law-suit or dispute of some kind or other between you, was there not?” “There is something of that kind,” said O'Donoghue, with an air of annoyance at the question; “but these are matters gentlemen leave to their lawyers, and seek not to mix themselves up with.” “The strong purse is the sinew of war,” muttered the inexorable doctor; “and they tell me he is one of the wealthiest men in England.” “He may be, for aught I know or care.” “Well, well,” resumed the other, after a long deliberative pause, “there's no knowing how this little adventure may turn out. If your son saved the girl's life, I scarcely think he could press you so hard about--” “Take care, sir,” broke in O'Donoghue, and with the words he seized the doctor's wrist in his strong grasp; “take care how you venture to speak of affairs which no wise concern you;” then, seeing the terrified look his speech called up, he added--“I have been very irritable latterly, and never desire to talk on these subjects; so, if you please, we'll change the topic.” The door was cautiously opened at this moment, and Kerry presented himself, with a request from Sir Archibald, that, as soon as Doctor Roach found it convenient, he would be glad to see him in the sick-room. “I am ready now,” said the doctor, rising from his chair, and not by any means sorry at the opportunity of escaping a _tête-a-tête_ he had contrived to render so unpalatable to both parties. As he mounted the stairs, he continued in broken phrases to inveigh against the house and the host in a half soliloquy--“A tumble-down old barrack it is--not fifty shillings worth of furniture under the roof--the ducks were as tough as soaked parchment--and where's the fee to come from--I wish I knew that--unless I take one of these old devils instead of it;” and he touched the frame of a large, damp, discoloured portrait of some long-buried ancestor, several of which figured on the walls of the stair-case. “The boy is worse--far worse,” whispered a low, but distinct voice beside him. “His head is now all astray--he knows no one.” Doctor Roach seemed vexed at the ceremony of salutation being forgotten in Sir Archibald's eagerness about the youth, and drily answered-- “I have the honour to see you well, sir, I hope.” “There is one here very far from well,” resumed Sir Archy, neither caring for, nor considering the speech. “We have lost too much time already--I trust ye may na be too late now.” The doctor made no reply, but rudely taking the candle from his hand, walked towards the bed-- “Ay, ay,” muttered he, as he beheld the lustrous eyes and widespread pupils--the rose-red cheek, and dry, cracked lips of the youth; “he has it sure enough.” “Has what?--what is it?” “The fever--brain fever, and the worst kind of it too.” “And there is danger then?” whispered M'Nab.