“You are ill, sir; sit down!”
“Yes, David; I am not well; I am somewhat weak, but I wish to give you certain commands that must not, as you value my friendship, be disobeyed.” The old man paused and painfully sought to gain command of his voice, and failing, gasped forth:
“Send a message to my brother saying, ‘It is a boy and all is well,’ and add—David Chapman, do you understand me?—and add these very words, ‘Do not come home; it is unnecessary.’ Sign the message ‘James’—and, listen, Chapman, listen; no word that I am not well or my granddaughter in danger must reach my brother John.”
“Your instructions shall be obeyed, sir,” and Chapman’s voice was almost as indistinct as that of his loved master.
“What of the business, sir, while Mr. Burton is absent?” the ever-faithful superintendent asked.
“Use your own discretion in everything,” and with a dry, convulsive sob that shook his bended frame, he added in a whisper:
“It makes no difference now.”
David Chapman heard the sob, and caught those heartbroken words. In an instant that strangely constituted man was on his knees at the feet of him whom of all on earth he worshiped most.
“Can I help you, sir, in your trouble? Say anything that man can do, and I shall do it, sir,” cried Chapman piteously.