an't--I can't! Before I'm cold in my grave my creditors will be down
on the property like a swarm of rats."

"No, no!"

"Yes! I tell you yes! The children will be homeless as well as
penniless."

Milbanke glanced about him in deep perplexity.

"There's your sister-in-law," he hazarded at length.

"Fan?" Asshlin made a contemptuous grimace. "Fan is as poor as a church
mouse already. Laurence had nothing to leave her: the Navy beggared
him. No, Fan could do nothing for them. And, anyway, she and Clodagh
couldn't stand each other for a twelvemonth. You might as well try to
blend fire and water. No, there's no way out of it. I'm reaping the
whirlwind, James. I'm reaping it with a vengeance."

The fever of his suffering and the excitement of his remorse were
burning in his eyes. In the three days of his illness his natural
exuberance of mind had been directed towards one point--the tardily
aroused knowledge of the future that awaited his children. And the
consequence had been a piteous intermingling of realisation and partial
delirium. His agony and helplessness were pitiable as he turned to his
friend.

"What am I to do, James?" he asked--"what am I to do?"

Milbanke bent over him.

"Denis! Denis!" he pleaded.

"But what am I to do? Advise me while there's time. 'Tis for that I've
wanted you. You've always been a good man. What must I do?"

Milbanke tightened his lips.

"You have friends," he said.

"Ah! but how many? And where?"

There was no response for a moment, as Milbanke slowly straightened
himself and glanced across the room towards the fire. Then very quietly
he turned towards the bed.

"You have one--here," he said in a low voice.

For an instant Asshlin answered nothing; then an odd sound--something
between a laugh and a sob--shook him.

"James!" he cried. "James!"

But Milbanke leant forward hastily.

"Not a word!" he said. "Not one word! If thanks are due, it is from me
to you. It is not every day that human responsibilities fall to an old
bachelor of my age."

Asshlin remained silent. Dissipated, blunted, degenerate though he
might be, his native intuition was unimpaired; and in a flash of
illumination he saw the grade of nobility, the high point of honour to
which this prosaic, unimaginative man had attained in that moment of
need. With a pang of acute pain, he freed his uninjured arm and
shakingly held out his hand.

"There are no friends like the old friends, James!" he said in