rd "Poison" in startling simplicity. He took
this up and slowly drew the cork. It was a liniment for neuralgic
pains in an overwrought head--belladonna. He poured some into a
medicine-glass, carefully measuring two tablespoonsful.

Then Guy Oscard sprang up and wrenched the glass away from him, throwing
the contents into the fire, which flared up. Quick as thought the bottle
was at the sick man's lips. He was a heavily built man with powerful
limbs. Guy seized his arm, closed with him, and for a moment there was
a deadly struggle, while the pungent odour of the poison filled
the atmosphere. At last Guy fell back on art: he tripped his father
cleverly, and they both rolled on the floor.

The sick man still gripped the bottle, but he could not get it to his
lips. He poured some of the stuff over his son's face, but fortunately
missed his eyes. They struggled on the floor in the dim light, panting
and gasping, but speaking no word. The strength of the elder man was
unnatural--it frightened the younger and stronger combatant.

At last Guy Oscard got his knee on his father's neck, and bent his wrist
back until he was forced to let go his hold on the bottle.

"Get back to bed!" said the son breathlessly. "Get back to bed."

Thomas Oscard suddenly changed his tactics. He whined and cringed to his
own offspring, and begged him to give him the bottle. He dragged across
the floor on his knees--three thousand pounds a year on its knees to Guy
Oscard, who wanted that money because he knew that he would never get
Millicent Chyne without it.

"Get back to bed!" repeated Guy sternly, and at last the man crept
sullenly between the rumpled sheets.

Guy put things straight in a simple, man-like way. The doctor's
instructions were quite clear. If any sign of excitement or mental
unrest manifested itself, the sleeping-draught contained in a small
bottle on the mantelpiece was to be administered at once, or the
consequences would be fatal. But Thomas Oscard refused to take it. He
seemed determined to kill himself. The son stood over him and tried
threats, persuasion, prayers; and all the while there was in his heart
the knowledge that, unless his father could be made to sleep, the
reputed three thousand a year would be his before the morning.

It was worse than the actual physical struggle on the floor. The
temptation was almost too strong.

After a while the sick man became quieter, but he still refused to take
the opiate. He clo