“All right, old chap, but sign first.”
Ogilvie was about to put his signature to the bottom of the document, when suddenly, without the least warning, a strange giddiness, followed by intolerable pain, seized him. It passed off, leaving him very faint. He raised his hand to his brow and looked around him in a dazed way.
“What is wrong,” asked Rycroft; “are you ill?”
“I suffer from this sort of thing now and then,” replied Ogilvie, bringing out his words in short gasps. “Brandy, please.”
Rycroft sprang to a side table, poured out a glass of brandy, and brought it to Ogilvie.
“You look ghastly,” he said; “drink.”
Ogilvie raised the stimulant to his lips. He took a few sips, and the color returned to his face.
“Now sign,” said Rycroft again.
“Where is the pen?” asked Ogilvie.
He was all too anxious now to take the fatal plunge. His signature, firm and bold, was put to the document. He pushed it from him and stood up. Rycroft hastily added his beneath that of Ogilvie’s.