g an old
English ballad.

"She's happy, ah! my dear Blanche!" the old man murmured between his
teeth. "But if suspicion falls upon me? Ah! if it does; then it means
ruin to them both--ruin because of a dastardly action of mine!"

He returned unsteadily to his chair, and sat staring straight into the
embers, his hands to his hot, fevered brow. More than once he
sighed--sighed heavily, as a man when fettered and compelled to act
against his better nature.

Again he heard his daughter's voice below, now singing a gay little
French chanson, a song of the cafe chantant and of the Paris boulevards.

In a flash there recurred to him every incident of those dramatic
interviews with the Mephistophelean doctor. He would at that moment have
given his very soul to be free of that calm, clever, insinuating man who,
while providing him with a handsome, even unlimited income, yet at the
same time held him irrevocably in the hollow of his hand.

He, a brilliant British soldier with a magnificent record, honoured by
his sovereign, was, after all, but a tool of that obscure doctor, the man
who had come into his life to rescue him from bankruptcy and disgrace.

When he reflected he bit his lip in despair. Yet there was no way
out--_none_! Weirmarsh had really been most generous. The cosy house in
Hill Street, the smart little entertainments which his wife gave, the bit
of shooting he rented up in the Highlands, were all paid for with the
money which the doctor handed him in Treasury notes with such regularity.

Yes, Weirmarsh was generous, but he was nevertheless exacting, terribly
exacting. His will was the will of others.

The blazing logs had died down to a red mass, the voice of Blanche had
ceased. He had heard footsteps an hour ago in the corridor outside, and
knew that the family had retired. There was not a sound. All were asleep,
save the sentries high upon that hidden fortress. Again the old general
sighed wearily. His grey face now wore an expression of resignation. He
had thought it all out, and saw that to resist and refuse would only
spell ruin for both himself and his family. He had but himself to blame
after all. He had taken one false step, and he had been held inexorably
to his contract.

So he yawned wearily, rose, stretched himself, and then, pacing the room
twice, at last turned up the lamp and placed it upon the small
writing-table at the foot of the bed. Afterwards he took from his
suit-case a quire of rule