"Ha!" cried Garsworth, with sudden suspicion, "not Bland. No; a stranger. What do you want? Where is Bland?"
"He is ill," said Nestley distinctly, coming close to him, "and cannot come, but I am a doctor and will do as well."
The old man looked at him anxiously, seeming to devour him with the fierce intensity of his gaze.
"Weak," he muttered, after a pause, "very weak, still there is intellect in the face."
Then he suddenly put out his hand and grasped that of Nestley in his thin, claw-like fingers.
"I will trust you," he said rapidly. "You are weak, but honest. Save my life and I will pay you well."
"I will do what I can," replied Nestley simply.
The squire, with an effort, sat up in bed, and waved his hand imperatively.
"Turn them all out," he said sharply, pointing to the women. "I must tell you what I wo'nt tell them. A physician is more of a confessor than a priest. Go away and leave me with my confessor."
Nestley was about to remonstrate, but Una placed her finger on her lips, and all three women noiselessly withdrew, bearing their candles. When the door closed after them the immense room was quite in darkness, save for the feeble glimmer of the taper by the bed, which shed its light on the pallid countenance of the old man now lying back exhausted on his pillows. It was certainly a very strange situation, and Nestley, modern physician though he was, felt little thrills of superstitious awe running through him. He was about to speak when the squire, turning on his side, looked at him earnestly and commenced to talk.