"Dying—oh, no, you—"
"Dying," insisted Caranby, rapping his stick on the ground. "I know that I have not many months to live, and I sha'n't be sorry when the end comes. I have had a hard time. Cuthbert will soon be standing in my shoes. I suffer from an incurable complaint, Mr. Jennings, and my doctor tells me I shall die soon."
"I am sure Mallow will be sorry," said Jennings, wondering why Caranby, ordinarily the most reticent of men, should tell him all this.
"Yes—yes, Cuthbert is a good fellow. I should like to see him happy and settled with Miss Saxon before I die. But Maraquito will do her best to hinder the match."
"She may soon have enough to do to look after herself," said Jennings grimly. "I shall see that she gets her deserts."
"What do you suspect her of?" asked Caranby hastily.
"I can't tell you yet. I have no proofs. But I am suspicious."
"She is a bad woman," said the old man. "I am certain of that. And she will stop at nothing to marry Cuthbert. But this is not what I came to see you about, Mr. Jennings. You asked my permission to go over my house at Rexton?"
"I did. And I was coming to-day to get the permission confirmed."
"Then I am sorry to say you cannot go over it."