"Doctor!" said Roland, "I am no doctor. Let me pass if you please. I am Mr. Roland Yorke."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man, recognizing the name as one borne by a nephew of the house. "You can go up, sir, of course if you please, but my master is just taken ill. He has got a stroke."
"Bless me!" cried Roland, in concern. "Is it a bad one?"
"I'm afraid it is for death, sir," whispered the man. "We left him at his wine after dinner, all comfortable; and when we went in a few minutes ago, there he was, drawed together so that you couldn't know him, and no breath in his body that we could hear. The nearest doctor's coming, and James is running to fifteen likely places to see if he can find Mr. Vincent."
"I'll go for him; I know where he is," cried Roland. And without further reflection he hailed another hansom that happened to be passing, jumped into it and ordered it to the clubhouse. Vincent was only then coming down the steps. He took Roland's place and galloped home.
"I hope he'll be in time," thought Roland. "Poor old Dick!"
He was not in time. And the next morning London woke up to the news of Sir Richard Yorke's sudden death from an attack of apoplexy. And his son, the third baronet, had succeeded to the family estates and honours as Sir Vincent Yorke.
[CHAPTER XXII.]
A LITTLE MORE LIGHT.
Something fresh, though not much, had turned up, relating to the case of the late Mr. Ollivera. That it should do so after so many years had elapsed--or, rather, that it should not have done so before--was rather remarkable. But as it bears very little upon the history in its present stage, it may be dismissed in a chapter.