ing
him here and I have been here ever since. It is strange," he added,
"that so rich a man as Mr. Millinborn had no servant travelling with him
and should live practically alone in this--well, it is little better
than a cottage."

Despite his anxiety, James Kitson smiled.

"He is the type of man who hates ostentation. I doubt if he has ever
spent a thousand a year on himself all his life--do you think it is wise
to leave him?"

The doctor spread out his hands.

"I can do nothing. He refused to allow me to send for a specialist and I
think he was right. Nothing can be done for him. Still----"

He walked back to the bedside, and the lawyer came behind him. John
Millinborn seemed to be in an uneasy sleep, and after an examination by
the doctor the two men walked back to the sitting-room.

"The excitement has been rather much for him. I suppose he has been
making his will?"

"Yes," said Kitson shortly.

"I gathered as much when I saw you bring the gardener and the cook in to
witness a document," said Dr. van Heerden.

He tapped his teeth with the tip of his fingers--a nervous trick of his.

"I wish I had some strychnine," he said suddenly. "I ought to have some
by me--in case."

"Can't you send a servant--or I'll go," said Kitson. "Is it procurable
in the village?"

The doctor nodded.

"I don't want you to go," he demurred. "I have sent the car to
Eastbourne to get a few things I cannot buy here. It's a stiff walk to
the village and yet I doubt whether the chemist would supply the
quantity I require to a servant, even with my prescription--you see," he
smiled, "I am a stranger here."

"I'll go with pleasure--the walk will do me good," said the lawyer
energetically. "If there is anything we can do to prolong my poor
friend's life----"

The doctor sat at the table and wrote his prescription and handed it to
the other with an apology.

Hill Lodge, John Millinborn's big cottage, stood on the crest of a hill,
and the way to the village was steep and long, for Alfronston lay nearly
a mile away. Half-way down the slope the path ran through a plantation
of young ash. Here John Millinborn had preserved a few pheasants in the
early days of his occupancy of the Lodge on the hill. As Kitson entered
one side of the plantation he heard a rustling noise, as though somebody
were moving through the undergrowth. It was too heavy a noise for a
bolting rabbit or a startled bird to make, and he peered into the thick
foli