"I take the responsibility," said the doctor, shortly. "As Sir Timothy's physician, I forbid you to tell him."
"Is Sir Timothy ill?" The canon's light eyes grew rounder with alarm.
"He is to undergo a dangerous operation to-morrow morning."
"God bless my soul!"
"He desires this evening—possibly his last on earth—to be a calm and unclouded one," said the doctor. "Respect his wishes, Birch, as you would respect the wishes of a dying man."
"Do you mean he won't get over it?" said the canon, in a horrified whisper.
"You always want the t's crossed and the i's dotted," said
Blundell, impatiently. "Of course there is a chance—his only chance.
He's a d——d plucky old fellow. I never thought to like Sir Timothy
half so well as I do at this moment."
"I hope I don't dislike any man," faltered the canon. "But—"
"Exactly," said the doctor, dryly.
"But what shall I do with Peter's letter?" said the unhappy recipient.