"We must hope that you won't have another such bout, Squire," was Dr. Spreckley's cheerful answer.
"Is there nothing you can prescribe, or do, Doctor, that will guarantee me against another such attack?" asked Mr. Denison, with almost startling suddenness.
Dr. Spreckley put down the phial he had taken in his hand, and faced his patient.
"I should be a knave, Squire, to say that I could guarantee you against anything. We can only do our best and hope for the best."
Mr. Denison was silent for a few moments, then he began again.
"Look here, Spreckley; you know my age--on the twenty-fourth of next April I shall be seventy years old. You know, too, what interests are at stake, and how much depends upon my living to see that day."
"I am not likely to forget," said the Doctor. "These are matters that we have talked over many a time."
"Do you believe in your heart, Spreckley, that I shall live to see that day--the twenty-fourth of next April?"
The question was put very solemnly, and the sick man craned his long neck forward and stared at the Doctor with wild hungry eyes, as though his salvation depended on the next few words.
The physician's ruddy cheek lost somewhat of its colour as he hesitated. He fidgeted nervously with his feet, he coughed behind his hand, and then he turned and faced his patient. The signs had not been lost on the Squire.