Nancy opened her lips to speak, but no sound issued from them.
“I am dying,” said Dr. Follett again. “You need not try to contradict me, Nance, I know what you would say. You have been a good girl, and you will, in the ordinary course of nature, miss me for a little; you will also as naturally forget me after a short time. I have been a burden to you and have led you a weary life, but we have no time to go into that now. Death is in a hurry and I must do something before I go to him. I have sent for you to get you to make me a promise.”
Nancy began to tremble. Again she made an effort to speak, but again failed; her hands were tightly locked together and beads of sudden moisture stood on her forehead. Dr. Follett was gazing at her out of two sunken and fierce eyes.
“You know what I allude to,” he said. “I see the knowledge in your face; you know what has animated me and kept me alive during the last six years.”
“Yes, I know,” she replied.
“I die before my work is completed,” he continued, “but I leave it to you.”
“I cannot take up your work, father,” she answered.
“Don’t talk folly, child. You must take it up. You know what the object of my life has been. Your brother was murdered; for six long years I have been searching for the man who took his life—I have been a hunter in pursuit of my prey. There is a man alive on this earth whom I must find, my grip must hold him, my revenge must reach him. I die without scenting my quarry, but you must follow where I leave off. There, my brain is clouded, I cannot think, not definitely, not clearly—a short time ago I had a suspicion. I wish Crossley, the detective, were here, I could tell him. It seemed to me that I had got hold of a clue at last, but it has slipped from my fingers, from my memory; I cannot recall it. I choke—this emotion is too much for me. Give me a dose of that medicine, quick.”
Nancy turned to a table which stood near. She poured something from a bottle into a medicine glass and brought it to her father. She held the glass to his lips; he drained the contents to the dregs.
“That is right,” he panted, “that is good stuff, it warms the heart. I used to give medicine myself like that long ago; there is chloroform in it, it is very comforting. Come to my side, Nancy, let me hold your hand. Remember I am a dying man and the requests of the dying ought to be granted. You are to make me a promise. Your brother, Anthony, was murdered, you are to find the murderer, and to avenge his death; you are to take up my life work, child. If you don’t I shall curse you.”