"Well, you've decided that Brayle is not sincere,"—he replied—"And you hardly think him clever. But if you would consider the point logically—you might enquire what motive could he possibly have for playing the humbug with me?"
Santoris smiled.
"Oh, man of 'business'! YOU can ask that?"
We were at the end of luncheon,—the servants had retired, and Mr.
Harland was sipping his coffee and smoking a cigar.
"You can ask that?" he repeated—"You, a millionaire, with one daughter who is your sole heiress, can ask what motive a man like Brayle,—worldly, calculating and without heart—has in keeping you both—both, I say—you and your daughter equally—in his medical clutches?"
Mr. Harland's sharp eyes flashed with a sudden menace.
"If I thought—" he began—then he broke off. Presently he resumed—"You are not aware of the true state of affairs, Santoris. Wizard and scientist as you are, you cannot know everything! I need constant medical attendance—and my disease is incurable—"
"No!"—said Santoris, quietly—"Not incurable."
A sudden hope illumined Harland's worn and haggard face.
"Not incurable! But—my good fellow, you don't even know what it is!"