--or--or"--suddenly a suspicion swept into his
brain--"or perhaps there's a less creditable cause for this
extraordinary behaviour."

"What do you mean, Bruce?" Iris' grey eyes dilated and her face
blanched. "Is he--ill--or----"

"I am not--ill, Miss Wayne." Somehow he had caught her words, her dear
voice had penetrated through the fog which enveloped his senses. "Don't,
please, be afraid.... I ... I am only ..."

"Anyway you're not fit to speak to a lady," cut in Cheniston incisively.
"We came to fetch you to Cherry Orchard; there's been on accident, my
little niece is badly hurt and Mrs. Carstairs wanted you--but it's
evident you're not in a fit state to come...."

Once more the fog lifted for a moment; and although he felt everything
to be whirling round him Anstice rose unsteadily to his feet and faced
his accuser.

Through the open door the light streamed on to his haggard face; and as
she saw the ravages which suffering had wrought in him Iris uttered an
exclamation.

"Don't be afraid, Miss Wayne." He could only, it seemed, repeat himself.
"I ... I didn't expect any one coming here." He spoke slowly, a pause
between each word. "I ... if there's anything--I can do----"

"There isn't--unless you can pull yourself together sufficiently to come
to Cherry Orchard," said Cheniston coldly. "And judging from your
appearance you can't do that."

The contempt in his voice stung Anstice momentarily into self-defence.

"What are you implying?" He spoke a little more clearly now, "I ... I
believe after all I'm ill--but----"

At that moment Bruce's eyes, roving here and there, caught sight of a
small decanter of brandy which stood on the table at his elbow. As a
matter of fact it had been brought there for a patient whose nerves had
failed him, earlier in the day, on hearing what practically amounted to
a sentence of death; but to Cheniston the innocent object appeared as
the confirmation of his suspicions, and his lip curled.

"Come along, Iris." His disdain was cruel. "We must go and find some one
else--some one who hasn't fuddled his wits like our friend here."

Iris' eyes, following his, had seen the brandy; and in a flash of
insight she knew what he meant. But before she could speak, could utter
the denial which trembled on her lips, Anstice himself interposed.

"You are mistaken, Cheniston." He still spoke haltingly, but his eyes
looked less dim than they had done a moment ago. "That"--he pointed to
the de