Suddenly, while I wavered, an appalling screech burst from him; he wrenched himself free of me with one mad superhuman effort, struck out at the empty air, and turned and fled across the bridge and up toward the hill beyond. In a moment he was lost to sight in the darkness. In the shock of his escape I twisted about to see what had so moved him--and, not a yard behind me, was standing Dr. Crackenthorpe. For many seconds we stared at one another speechless and motionless. His face was pale and set very grimly. At last he spoke, and “Murder!” was the word he muttered. “He runs fast for a murdered man,” I said, with a sneer. “Who was it?” he said, gazing with a strange, fixed expression up the dark blown hill. “A ghost,” I answered, with a reckless laugh. “The town is full of them to-night.” He looked at me gloomily. I could have thought he shivered slightly. “Do you know him?” “He was my friend once. Stand out of my way. I’ve an errand on hand. My father’s had a seizure.” “Had a--come, I’ll go see him.” “You won’t. I won’t have you near him. Stand out of my way.” “You’re a fool. Promptness is everything in such cases.” I hesitated. For what his professional opinion was worth, this man had always stood to us as adviser in such small ailments as we suffered. I had no notion where to seek another. My father would be unconscious of his presence. At least he could pronounce upon the nature of the stroke. “Very well,” I said, ungraciously. “You can see him and judge what’s the matter.” The old man was lying as I had left him when we entered the bedroom. His eyes were still closed, and his breathing sounded hard and stertorious. “He’s mortal bad, sir,” Peggy said. “He’ll die hard, I do believe.” Dr. Crackenthorpe waved her away and bent over the prostrate figure. As he did so its eyelids seemed to flicker, as if with dread consciousness of his approach. “Be quick!” I said. “What has happened?” He felt the dying pulse; bent his yellow face and listened at the heart. He was some minutes occupied. Presently he rose and came to me, all formal and professional. “You must prepare for the worst,” he said. “He may speak again by and by, but I doubt it. In my opinion it is a question of a few days only. No medical skill can avail.” “Is there nothing I can do?” “Nothing.” He bowed to me stiffly. “I am at your service,” he said, in a cold voice. “If I can be of any further use to you, you will let me know. You are not ignorant of where to find me, I believe.” He was walking to the door, but turned and came toward me again. “That one-time friend of yours,” he said. “Is he stopping in the town?” “I really don’t know, Dr. Crackenthorpe. I met him by chance, and you saw he ran from me. You seem interested in him.” “He--yes; he struck me as bearing a likeness to a--to a patient I once attended. Good-night.” CHAPTER LII. A WRITTEN WORD.