other day."

He put his hand up to his neat black moustache to hide a smile, and met
the steward's indignant gaze without flinching.

"I mean ill," said the latter, sharply.

"Oh, yes," said the other. "Well, you get to bed now. Good morning."

He took up his hat and stick and departed. Mr. Wilks sat for a little
while over the fire, and then, rising, hobbled slowly upstairs to bed and
forgot his troubles in sleep.

He slept until the afternoon, and then, raising himself in bed, listened
to the sounds of stealthy sweeping in the room below. Chairs were being
moved about, and the tinkle of ornaments on the mantelpiece announced
that dusting operations were in progress. He lay down again with a
satisfied smile; it was like a tale in a story-book: the faithful old
servant and his master's daughter. He closed his eyes as he heard her
coming upstairs.

"Ah, pore dear," said a voice.

Mr. Wilks opened his eyes sharply and beheld the meagre figure of Mrs.
Silk. In one hand she held a medicine-bottle and a glass and in the
other paper and firewood.

[Illustration: "The meagre figure of Mrs. Silk."]

"I only 'eard of it half an hour ago," she said, reproachfully. "I saw