she can many, you can buy a practice, and I shall die satisfied—but it must be this week."
"What do you mean?" I queried.
"Mean," said he, "mean—why, I intend that you shall help me. A little digitalin, followed by some morphia, a hypodermic syringe—and all is settled. You can sign the certificate, and Gwen—bless her heart!—gets the money. But not a word to her, mind. She must never know."
I sat aghast. It was a remarkable suggestion, a man quietly asking me to murder him. It took my breath away for the minute, and yet, it was easy enough, too, when one came to think of it.
"You are not in earnest, Dr. Eckington?" I said. "I can't kill you in cold blood like this—it's too preposterous."
"Nothing of the sort, man," replied the doctor. "I am in deadly earnest, and tomorrow I shall take to my bed. You can give me the first dose in the evening."
"I can't do it, sir," I protested. "Besides, it might be discovered, and then"
"Nonsense! You are quite safe. Anyway, choose, and choose now—either a new berth as an underpaid assistant, or wife, money, and a practice."
