ew days now. But I
must not waste the little breath I have left in talking about myself.
I sent for you to ask a favor."

Larry held out his hand, and John Manning took it and seemed to gain
strength from the firm clasp.

"I knew I could rely on you," he said, "for much or for little. And
this is not much, for I have not much to leave. This worn old house,
which belonged to my grandmother, and in which I spent the happiest
hours of my boyhood, this and a few shares of stock here and there,
are all I have to leave. I do not know what the house is worth--and I
shall be glad when I am gone from it. If I had not come here, I think
I might perhaps have got well. There seems to be something deadly
about the place." The sick man's voice sank to a wavering whisper, as
though borne down by a sudden weight of impending danger against which
he might struggle in vain; he gave a fearful glance about the room as
though seeking a mystic foe, hidden and unknown. "The very first day
we were here the cat lapped its milk by the fire and then stretched
itself out and died without a sign. And I had not been here two days
before I felt the fatal influence: the trouble from my wound came on
again, and this awful burning in my breast began to torture me. As a
boy, I thought that heaven must be like this house; and now I should
not want to die if I thought hell could be worse!"

"Why don't you leave the place, since you hate it so?" asked Larry,
with what scant cheeriness he could muster; he was yielding himself
slowly to the place, though he fought bravely against his
superstitious weakness.

"Am I fit to be moved?" was the sick man's query in reply.

"But you will be better soon, and then--"

"I shall be worse before I am better, and I shall never be better in
this life or in this place. No, no, I must die in my hole like a dog.
Like a dog!" and John Manning repeated the words with a wistful face.
"Do you remember the faithful beast who always welcomed me here when
we came up before we went to Europe?"

"Of course I do," said Larry, glad to get the sick man away from his
sickness, and to ease his mind by talk on a healthy topic; "he was a
splendid fellow, too. Cesar, that was his name, wasn't it?"

"Cesar Borgia I called him," was Manning's sad reply. "I knew you
could not have forgotten him. He is dead. Cesar Borgia is dead. He was
the last living thing that loved me--except you, Larry, I know--and he
is dead. He died this morning.