was surprised to see the change which two weeks had made in him.
"Where the devil have you been all this long time, d'Escombe?" he inquired. "I'm very seedy. My brain's queer, I don't seem to be able to think logically, and my money matters are all in a muddle. I don't know if I've got any left. Didn't I give you some once?"
"Oh, no, Sir Richard," I answered, and as I spoke I looked round the room, half expecting to see that horrid little hound Fernie somewhere about.
"As you know, d'Escombe, I've only got my daughter to think of, but I don't know how I stand, or how she would be situated if I died now. I can't get to the bank; I shouldn't comprehend things if I could. What's coming to me, doctor, am I going mad?" he asked, and the once strong-minded, able, and plucky financier burst into a flood of tears.
"Cheer up, man," I said, "I'll just keep you in bed for a week or so, and give you a chance to pick up; you've been overdoing it."
"All right, d'Escombe," was the answer. "But I refuse to see any visitors, or do any
