a mere business
transaction, surely. Carry your thoughts back to six years ago. After
your brilliant military career you returned from India and found
yourself, as so many of your profession find themselves, in very
straitened circumstances. You were bound to keep up appearances, and, in
order to do so, got into the hands of Eli Moser, the moneylender. You
married Lady Orlebar, and had entered London society when, of a sudden,
the scoundrelly usurer began to put the screw upon you. At that moment
you--luckily, I think, for yourself--met me, and--well, I was your
salvation, for I pointed out to you an easy way by which to pay your
creditors and rearrange your affairs upon a sound financial basis.
Indeed, I did it for you. I saved you from the moneylender. Did I not?"

He spoke in a calm, even tone, without once removing his eyes from the
man who stood upon the hearthrug with bent head and folded arms.

"I know, Weirmarsh. It's true that you saved me from bankruptcy--but
think what penalty I have paid by accepting your terms," he answered in a
low, broken voice. "The devil tempted me, and I fell into your damnable
net."

"I hardly think it necessary for you to put it that way," replied the
doctor without the least sign of annoyance. "I showed you how you could
secure quite a comfortable income, and you readily enough adopted my
suggestion."

"Readily!" echoed the fine-looking old soldier. "Ah! you don't know what
my decision cost me--it has cost me my very life."

"Nonsense, man," laughed the doctor scornfully. "You got out of the hands
of the Jews, and ever since that day you haven't had five minutes' worry
over your finances. I promised you I would provide you with an ample
income, and----"

"And you've done so, Weirmarsh," cried the old general; "an income far
greater than I expected. Yet what do I deserve?"

"My dear General," said the doctor quite calmly, "you're not yourself
to-day; suffering from a slight attack of remorse, eh? It's a bad
complaint; I've had it, and I know. But it's like the measles--you're
very nearly certain to contract it once in a lifetime."

"Have you no pity for me?" snarled Sir Hugh, glaring at the narrow-eyed
man seated before him. "Don't you realise that by this last demand of
yours you've driven me into a corner?"

Weirmarsh's brows contracted slightly, and he shot an evil glance at the
man before him--the man who was his victim. "But you must do it. You
still want money--and l