Meanwhile the sick man tossed in agony upon his pallet and cursed the inconsiderate strangers who forced their selfish interests upon him at such a moment. Outside the door the nurse coughed impatiently. At last, after an unusually persistent harangue on the part of Herbert, the invalid, inveighing against the sciatica that had placed him thus at their mercy, and more to get rid of them than anything else, reluctantly yielded. Fumbling among the bed-clothes, he produced a soiled certificate, which he smoothed out and regarded sadly.
"'Ere, tyke it," he muttered. "Tyke it! Gimme yer money, an' go aw'y!"
As yet he had not recognized McAllister, who had remained partially concealed behind his companion.
"Now's your chance!" whispered the latter. "Take it while you can get it. Where's the money?"
McAllister drew out the bills, which crackled deliciously in his hands, and stepped square in front of the sick engineer, between him and Herbert.
"Mr. Murphy"—he spoke the words slowly and distinctly—"I'm the person who's buying your stock. This gentleman has merely interested me in the proposition." Then, fixing his eyes directly on those of Wilkins, he held out the bills. A look of terror came over the face of the valet, and he half-raised himself from the pillow as he stared horrified at his former master. Then he sank back, and turned away his head.
"Now answer me a few questions," continued McAllister. "Are you the bona fide owner of this stock?"
Wilkins choked.
"S' 'elp me! Got it fer services," he gasped.