ling his story there, without any attempt to
conceal his breathless agitation, he had no difficulty in bringing with
him a companion who would authenticate the discovery of the receipt,
and certify to any confession that might be obtained.

A confession! That was the one matter of the most intense interest.
Tom considered whether to secure the presence of a clergyman, but
suspected that this would put Axworthy on his guard rather than soften
him, and therefore only wrote to the chaplain, begging him to hold
himself in readiness for a summons to the Hotel Dieu, whither he drove
rapidly back with his diplomatic friend, whom he wrought up well-nigh
to his own pitch of expectation. He had already decided on his own
first address--pitying, but manifesting that nothing, not even
vengeance, could be gained by concealment; and then, according to the
effect, would he try either softening or threatening to extort the
truth.

Gaspard was eagerly awaiting them. 'I had already sent for you,' he
said. 'The agony is commencing; he has spoken, but he has not his full
consciousness.'

Tom hurried on, drawing after him the young diplomate, who would have
hung back, questioning if there were any use in his witnessing the
dying struggles of a delirious man.

'Come, come,' peremptorily repeated Tom, 'there must be some last
words. Every moment is of importance.'

Yet his trust was shaken by the perception of the progress that death
had made in the miserable frame during his absence. The fixed
expression of malignity had been forced to yield to exhaustion and
anguish, the lips moved, but the murmurs between the moans were
scarcely articulate.

'He is almost past it,' said Tom, 'but there is the one chance that he
may be roused by my voice.'

And having placed his friend conveniently, both for listening and
making notes, he came close to the bed, and spoke in a tone of
compassion. 'Axworthy, I say, Axworthy, is there anything I can do for
you?'

There was a motion of the lid of the fast-glazing eye; but the terrible
face of hatred came back, with the audible words, 'I tell you, you old
fool, none of the Mays are to come prying about my place.'

Appalled by the deadly malice of the imprecation and the look that
accompanied this partial recognition of his voice, Tom was nerving
himself to speak again, when the dying man, as if roused by the echo of
his own thought, burst out, 'Who? What is it? I say Dr. May shall not
be cal