ce for the medical adviser to
take his leave.

"I cannot conceal from myself," said the doctor, rising, and hesitating
a little, "that I am intruding on you. But I am compelled to beg your
indulgence if I return to the subject of Mr. Armadale."

"May I ask what compels you?"

"The duty which I owe as a Christian," answered the doctor, "to a dying
man."

Mr. Neal started. Those who touched his sense of religious duty touched
the quickest sense in his nature.

"You have established your claim on my attention," he said, gravely. "My
time is yours."

"I will not abuse your kindness," replied the doctor, resuming his
chair. "I will be as short as I can. Mr. Armadale's case is briefly
this: He has passed the greater part of his life in the West Indies--a
wild life, and a vicious life, by his own confession. Shortly after
his marriage--now some three years since--the first symptoms of an
approaching paralytic affection began to show themselves, and his
medical advisers ordered him away to try the climate of Europe. Since
leaving the West Indies he has lived principally in Italy, with no
benefit to his health. From Italy, before the last seizure attacked him,
he removed to Switzerland, and from Switzerland he has been sent to this
place. So much I know from his doctor's report; the rest I can tell you
from my own personal experience. Mr. Armadale has been sent to Wildbad
too late: he is virtually a dead man. The paralysis is fast spreading
upward, and disease of the lower part of the spine has already taken
place. He can still move his hands a little, but he can hold nothing
in his fingers. He can still articulate, but he may wake speechless
to-morrow or next day. If I give him a week more to live, I give him
what I honestly believe to be the utmost length of his span. At his own
request I told him, as carefully and as tenderly as I could, what I
have just told you. The result was very distressing; the violence of the
patient's agitation was a violence which I despair of describing to you.
I took the liberty of asking him whether his affairs were unsettled.
Nothing of the sort. His will is in the hands of his executor in London,
and he leaves his wife and child well provided for. My next question
succeeded better; it hit the mark: 'Have you something on your mind
to do before you die which is not done yet?' He gave a great gasp of
relief, which said, as no words could have said it, Yes. 'Can I help
you?' 'Yes. I have so