Mr. Harland laughed.
"I must talk to Derrick,"—he said—then, approaching his daughter, he asked her kindly if she was better. She replied in the affirmative, but with some little pettishness.
"My nerves are all unstrung,"—she said—"I think that friend of yours is one of those persons who draw all vitality out of everybody else. There are such people, you know, father!—people who, when they are getting old and feeble, go about taking stores of fresh life out of others."
He looked amused.
"You are full of fancies, Catherine,"—he said—"And no logical reasoning will ever argue you out of them. Santoris is all right. For one thing, he gave me great relief from pain to-day."
"Ah! How was that?"—and Brayle looked up sharply with sudden interest.
"I don't know how,"—replied Harland,—"A drop or two of harmless-looking fluid worked wonders for me—and in a few moments I felt almost well. He tells me my illness is not incurable."
A curious expression difficult to define flitted over Brayle's face.
"You had better take care," he said, curtly—"Invalids should never try experiments. I'm surprised that a man in your condition should take any drug from the hand of a stranger."
"Most dangerous!" interpolated Catherine, feebly—"How could you, father?"