Tor strode rapidly along the path which led by a cross-cut to Meredith’s house. He did not much like such a summons, for he was always in dread of what the blind man might require of him; but common humanity forbade him to refuse, when such a message as that had been despatched; so he walked on, hoping for the best, and trusting that no very awkward questions would arise. He seemed to be expected at the house, for the servant who admitted him asked no questions, but led him direct to the sickroom. As he approached it, the door opened, and the doctor came out. ‘Ah, Mr. Debenham, I am glad you have come. My patient seems very impatient for your arrival. The sight of you will do him more good than my draught.’ ‘Is he seriously ill?’ ‘Everything is serious with a man whose brain and heart are so abnormally irritable as his. A very slight thing might upset the balance of reason, or do hopeless mischief to the heart. He wants the very closest watching and most perfect quiet both of mind and body. With these, I see no reason why he should not get over this attack; but if he will work himself up into a fever over any real or imaginary grievance, I will not give _that_ for his chance. His daughter seems to understand him thoroughly. I have great confidence in her; but the morbidly sensitive condition of his mind is a very unfavourable concomitant in his case. I shall look in again before midnight. Do what you can to quiet him. If all goes well during the next six hours, I should say he would do.’ Tor nodded, and went quietly into the room which the doctor had just quitted. Michael Meredith lay flat upon his back in bed, a strange, ghastly pallor upon his face, and a wandering restlessness in his sightless eyes. His face helped Tor to realize how ill he was, better than the doctor’s words had done. He felt shocked and startled at the change he beheld in the familiar countenance. Roma, as white as a marble statue, stood at the farther side of the bed, bathing her father’s forehead with eau de Cologne. The room was pervaded by the odour of strong stimulants and restoratives. The only light was that of a carefully-shaded lamp. Hopelessly blind as Meredith was, he would not permit any glare of light in his room. Even in moments like this, he never lost sight of his love for producing effects. ‘Philip Debenham, you have come. It is well!’ This was his greeting, as Tor came and stood beside the bed. The young man took the cold, powerless hand in his strong grasp, and uttered a few kindly and cheering words. There was something reassuring in his strength and vitality, and he possessed that ready gentleness which is the almost invariable attribute of unusual physical power. Father and daughter both felt the better for his presence in the room. Tor gave his hand to Roma, and looked at her with the grave sympathy of comprehension. Then he crossed over to her, and placed a chair beside the bed.