the
sweat from his brow, and nodded his head in speechless despair. "Come in
to-night, after you've talked with Anne and Dr. Bates. I'm easier now. It
can't go on much longer, you see. Bates gives me a couple of weeks. That
means a couple of centuries of pain, however. Go now and talk it over with
Anne."

With this singular admonition pounding away at his senses, Braden went out
of the room. Wade,--the ever-present Wade,--was outside the door. His
expression was as calmly attentive as it would have been were his master
yawning after a healthy nap instead of screaming with all the tortures of
the damned. As Braden hurried by, hardly knowing whither he went, the
servant did something he had never done before in his life. He ventured to
lay a detaining hand upon the arm of a superior.

"Did he ask you to--to do it, Master Braden?" he whispered hoarsely. The
man's eyes were glazed with dread.

Braden stopped. At first he did not comprehend. Then Wade's meaning was
suddenly revealed to him. He drew back, aghast.

"Good Lord, no! No, no!" he cried out.

"Well," said Wade deliberately, "he will, mark my words, sir. I don't mind
saying to you, Mr. Braden, that he _depends_ upon you."

"Are you crazy, Wade?" gasped Braden, searching the man's face with an
intentness that betrayed his own fear that the prophecy would come true.
Something had already told him that his grandfather would depend upon him
for complete relief,--and it was that something that had gripped his heart
when he entered the sick-room, and still gripped it with all the infernal
tenacity of inevitableness.

He hurried on, like one hunted and in search of a place in which to hide
until the chase had passed. At the foot of the stairs he came upon Murray,
the butler.

"Mrs. Thorpe says that you are to go to your old room, Mr. Braden," said
the butler. "Will you care for tea, sir, or would you prefer something a
little stronger?"

"Nothing, Murray, thank you," replied Braden, cold with a strange new
terror. He could not put aside the impression that Murray, the bibulous
Murray, was also regarding him in the light of an executioner. Somewhere
back in his memory there was aroused an old story about the citizens who
sat up all night to watch for the coming of the hangman who was to do a
grewsome thing at dawn. He tried to shake off the feeling, he tried to
laugh at the fantastic notion that had so swiftly assailed him. "I think I
shall go to my room. Call me