"After a little, go call on Miss Wardour and talk with her about this affair. I think she knows as much as is known, and I am certain she has not lost her faith in her friend."
"Thank you, Heath; I will."
Just here the office door admitted another visitor in the form of Francis Lamotte.
He, too, looked pale and worn, but he carried his head erect, if not with some defiance. "Do, Heath. Morning, Vandyck," he mumbled, flinging himself upon a settee with scant ceremony. "You will excuse me from asking 'what's the news?'"
"I should ask what's the matter?" retorted Clifford Heath, eyeing him closely.
"Fix me up one of your potions, Heath," replied Francis, drawing a hard deep breath. "I've had another of those cursed attacks."
Dr. Heath arose and went slowly toward a cabinet, slowly unlocked it and then turned and surveyed his patient.
"Another attack," he said somewhat severely, "the second one in three days, and not a light one, if I can judge. Let me tell you, Lamotte, you must not have a third of these attacks for some time to come."