"Don't speak of that," said the fiend with a smile. "The obligation you have placed me under is still greater. But now, Toppleton, you must sleep, or you will be beyond all hope to-morrow."
"I will," said Toppleton, faintly, and then he closed his eyes and consciousness departed from him.
The fiend regarded him for a moment and turned away with a sigh.
"If I had had the good fortune to operate on you instead of upon Chatford," he said, "well, there'd have been a president of the United States in your family by this time, or, better still, a railway king with an amount of brains equal to the possessions of the best of them. Oh, well! he wasn't to be had, and I haven't done badly with Chatford."
With which reflection the fiend passed from the room, and left Toppleton breathing heavily in sleep.
When next Toppleton opened his eyes consciously to himself, he was lying on a great oak bed with a tapestry canopy over his head. The sun was streaming in through the broad mullioned windows. The world without was white with snow, the tall evergreens down by the now ice-covered Barbundle presenting the only vestige of green in sight.
"Ah!" he sighed, as he looked wearily out of the window. "We shall have a white Christmas after all, but," he added, gazing about him, "how the dickens did I ever come to be here, I wonder? In Barncastle's own room—oh, yes, I remember. I fell asleep here last night and I suppose he has—Hello!—Who's that?"
The last words were addressed to whomsoever it was that entered the room at the moment, for the door had opened and closed softly.
"It is I," came a soft, sweet voice, and before Hopkins had time to place it, Lady Alice entered the room.
"Good morning!" said Toppleton, slightly embarrassed at the unexpected appearance of his hostess.