nto her head, Emile reflected, it was sure to be one of her own
sex.

Having matured his plans he descended to the kitchen regions,
manufacturing impressive threats _en route_.

Here an answer to his problem presented itself, or rather herself. The
landlady had a niece who came in daily to assist in household matters,
and take part in a duet of feminine gossip.

She was a solid young woman of unmoved countenance, who was quite
prepared to nurse the ten plagues of Egypt, providing she received
sufficient remuneration. She proposed to get married at the earliest
opportunity and what Emile offered her would be of great assistance in
providing her bridal finery.

The two came to an agreement rapidly, and Emile climbed the stairs
again, triumphant.

He began to feel anxious about the doctor. Two hours had passed and
there was no sight of him. He might be out, or he might be drunk.
Emile knew the little weakness of Michael Furness, and as Vardri had
not returned it meant that he was still searching.

At last the horse-doctor arrived, grunting and ruffling up his crest of
curly black hair. He had a large heart by way of counterbalance to his
many failings, and he was interested in Arithelli, for he had come
across her once or twice in the stables, and had heard various
picturesque stories of her exploits. He might have been a success in
his own profession, but for the two temptations that beset every
Irishman--whisky and horses.

He had left his practice in the city of Cork, as Emile had said,
somewhat under a cloud, and had given up whisky for the _absinthe_ of
the _cafes_, and had not regretted the exchange. He made his
examination quickly, handling the girl with a surprising skill and
deftness, in spite of his big clumsy-looking hands.

When he touched her she opened her eyes.

"_Mais, ou suis je_?" she murmured, painfully dragging out the words.
Then followed Emile's name.

The doctor laid her back gently, and stood holding one of her wrists.
"She thinks it's you, Poleski! 'Tis diphtheria. A bad case, too.
Shall want some looking afther. Who's seeing to her?"

"I am," responded Emile, coolly.

"The divil ye are!" The Irishman's long upper lip twitched humorously.
"Well, treat her gintly then, me bhoy! You're wise to be smoking.
Less chance of infection. I'll keep you company." He produced a
couple of thin black cigars, and handed one to Emile.

"See, now," Michael Furness added seriously, "I