I am inclined to think that I had not given Mr. Montagu Babbacombe credit for all the cleverness he possessed. I began, indeed, to suspect that to his cleverness--if it was only cleverness--there were no limits. While we stared and wondered, a waiter entered the room with a card on a salver, which he brought to me. It was Edith's card. On it she had pencilled a line:

'I am here with Violet. Can't I see him? I should like to.'

'Let her come! Let her come!'

The instruction--it amounted to that--came from the man in the bed. It seemed that he had not only known that the women were in the house before I had had any intimation of their presence, and that the knowledge had prompted him to make his remark, but it also appeared that he knew what was written on that card. Was the fellow possessed of the occult powers of which we read in fairy-books? While the others eyed me askance, inquiring his meaning, I eyed him.

As a matter of fact I welcomed neither Edith nor Violet. I had far rather they both of them had kept away. The business on hand was one with which I desired that they should have no sort of connection. It was bad enough that I should be entering, with my eyes wide open, into such a sea of falsehood. That they should soil even the hem of their skirts by standing, unwittingly, upon the edge was a notion I did not fancy. They were stainless: above reproach. It was my business to keep them so. It did not matter so much for me.

Yet I did not see how I could prevent them coming if they chose to come, even into that atmosphere of foul fraud and lying; especially if my friend, the dying man, desired their presence. The motive which had brought Edith I could understand. After all, Twickenham had been the playmate of her childish days. And he had wooed and won her dearest friend, who still waited, in full confidence, his coming. But why Violet? The man had not even a pseudo-sentimental attraction for her. I turned to the waiter.

'Tell the ladies I will be with them directly.'

The dying man was not to be balked. He evinced a degree of vigour which was altogether beyond anything he had previously shown.

'Let them come! Let them come!' he repeated.

He stretched out his hand, from which the pen dropped out unused, in such a condition of tremulous agitation that Hancock promptly laid him back upon the pillow.

'Gently! Gently! Don't excite yourself, my lord; be calm! What does he mean?' he asked me. I perforce explained.

'Miss Desmond is below, and wishes to know if she may come up.'

'Let her come!' gasped the invalid.

'Better humour him,' murmured Hancock.

'I will go down and speak to her.'

But when I prepared to go the patient shook his head at me in a frenzy of excitement; struggling all the while for breath in a fashion which it was not agreeable to witness. Hancock strove to soothe him.

'Gently, my lord, gently.'

'He's--he's not--to--go. Let them--let them--come.'

'It appears, Mr. Howarth, that his lordship would like Miss Desmond to come without your going to fetch her. Can you not send a message through the waiter?' He added, sotto voce, 'Better do as he wishes; she'll get no harm.'

I had my doubts; but I directed the waiter as Hancock desired. As soon as he was gone Foster returned to the charge.

'Now, if your lordship will be pleased to attach your signature.'

The sick man would have none of him. He merely continued to mumble:

'Let them--come! Let them--come!'

It was clear that the completion of that will would have to be postponed. Foster's chagrin was obvious. To his legal mind form and precedent were everything. What does it matter if we die, so long as our affairs are left in order? To have been so near the attainment of his wishes--for it had looked as if the wily sinner was about to sign--only to be disappointed after all, was a severe trial to his sense of professional propriety. For my part, on that point at least, I was at ease. I was persuaded that Reggie would not find so many thorns in his path as his man of business predicted.

While the sick man mumbled, I regarding him askance, with half an eye on Foster's discomfiture, in came Edith, with Violet at her heels. I had not meant that Violet should come, too, and made a half-step forward to request her to withdraw. But both Reggie and Hancock were in front of me. Reggie made a dash towards Vi, the physician appropriating Edith. Indeed he assumed command of both; his remarks being addressed to the pair. He spoke in a sort of stage aside; his words being perfectly audible to me.

'My dear Miss Desmond! My dear Lady Violet! Our long-lost friend is in a sad way; very, very sad. At any moment the end may come. But he expresses such a desire to see you, and shows so much impatience at the idea of your being kept from him that I thought we might venture. Only be careful not to agitate him.'

'Our long-lost friend' showed impatience then and there.

'What's he--what's he--gabbling about? ---- the man! Let them come!'

Hancock shrugged his shoulders; he dropped his voice.

'You hear?--Such language! But you mustn't mind.' He brought them forward. 'Here, my dear lord, are two ladies who have come to see you--Miss Desmond and Lady Violet Howarth.'

'Edith?' He hit upon her surname; he alone knew how. 'You're an old woman--aren't you?'

That was a civil thing to say,--particularly from a man in his position. I could have shaken him again. Edith only smiled.

'I'm not so young as I was. But you're not an old man, and I'm younger than you.'

'Old?--I am old. Rotten. Done. I feel a thousand. The years lie heavy--on me. I was--never--young.'

The thing was curiously true of Twickenham. He never had been young. Mentally, physically, and morally, he had been born old. As a boy he had all an old man's vices. As Edith perceived what a wreck the creature seemed I saw that tears were in her eyes.

'I am sorry to meet you, after all these years, like this. Poor Leonard!'

She stretched out her hand to touch his brow. I could have snatched it back. He lay perfectly still, staring up at her with fixed, unseeing eyes.

'Why--sorry?'

'I had hoped it would all have seemed so different.'

'It's all right. I've had enough. Glad it's over.'

'Are you in pain?'

'Pains of hell.'

He said this, in his tremulous, croaking tones, with a depth of sincerity which impressed even me. The fellow was a past master of his art, or in possession of unholy powers. Edith's hand visibly trembled.

'Poor Leonard!'

'Soon--over. Who's the girl?'

'This is Violet Howarth--Douglas's sister. Vi, you remember Twickenham? This is Reggie's brother.'

Vi said nothing; possibly because she had nothing to say. She surveyed the object in front of her with looks which were a blend of pity, curiosity, and, unless I err, disgust. She had, perhaps, more than her share of the severity of youth, and I knew what she had thought of the man she supposed herself to be looking at. He spoke to her, with the same request which he had made to Reggie.

'Come--closer; lean--down.'

I believe that Vi rebelled; but when Edith touched her on the shoulder she did as he asked. Whereupon he went through the same performance with which he had favoured Reggie; putting up his hand, and examining her features with his finger-tips.

'You're a pretty girl--but ---- hard.'

It was not surprising that the blood flamed through her skin, although, saving the perhaps unnecessary vigour of the adjective, the thing was true enough. When she likes she can be as hard as nails.

'Why don't you--marry--Reggie?'

'I'm going to, when you're dead.'

I fancy, in her impetuous fashion, that the words were out of her mouth before she was able to stop them. They were out, anyhow; creating a small sensation. It is a common feeling that a deathbed, even of such a character as Twickenham had been, is a place where one ought only to say sentimental and, also, agreeable things; especially young women. One wants to keep the clear, dry light of truth outside. Vi turned white; then red again. Reggie endeavoured to insinuate her hand in his; by way, perhaps, of expressing his sympathy. But she would have none of it. She took her hand away. The sick man's comment showed that his wits moved pretty quickly.

'A nice--wife--you'll make him. He'll be married--and done for--when he's got you.'

Unmistakably a retort quivered on the young lady's tongue. Edith, slipping her arm about her, restrained its utterance.

'It's all right, Vi,' she whispered. Instead, therefore, of that retort, Vi addressed him an inquiry, in even, measured tones.

'Have you quite finished with me?'

'What a girl! Doug--she does you--proud.'

A peculiar sound proceeded from his throat, which was perhaps intended for a chuckle. His hand dropped. Vi stood up. We were silent. A feeling of awkwardness was in the air; a consciousness that Vi had struck an inharmonious note. Hancock relieved the situation--or tried to.

'I think now, my lord, if you were to take a little sleep.'

'Hang--sleep. Shan't I--have enough--sleep soon?'

Foster proffered his suggestion.

'Will your lordship be pleased to attach your signature?'

'Foster!'

'My lord?'

'Give me the will.'

Foster advanced the sheet of paper, on the blotting-pad, and a pen, newly dipped in ink. To the pen the sick man paid no heed.

'The will?'

'Here is the will.'

'Give it--to me.'

The lawyer held out the sheet of paper. The sick man took it, and tore it in half. It was rather a niggling process: he made one or two abortive attempts. But the result was unmistakable. Two crumpled fragments represented the document which Foster had deemed of such importance. Its destroyer made a single remark.

'I--hate--wills.'

The lawyer's face was a study. There was a common feeling that Violet's behaviour had something to do with what had happened. I think that for little he would have told her so, in language of vigour. Perhaps her own conscience assailed her. She whispered to Reggie:

'What's he torn?'

'His will.'

'His will? What was in it?'

'Everything to me.'

'Everything? Reggie, you don't mean that you'll have nothing then?'

'Not so bad as that.--Hush.'

The admonition was only administered in the nick of time. Then came a voice from the bed.

'That girl's ---- tongue! She's a--jade, Reggie!'

'Yes.'

'You'll be a fool--if you marry her. Don't you do it.'

Reggie spoke hotly in reply. 'You don't know what you're talking about.'

'You--you--young devil--speak to me like that? Foster.'

'My lord?' Hancock interposed.

'I beg, my lord, that you will not excite yourself.'

'Excite myself! What in thunder do you mean? I'll do--what I please--with myself.' He was illumined by a sudden burst of really vigorous passion; actually raising himself in bed to give it tongue. He spoke with an amount of fluency which after the recent struggle he had made to utter disconnected words was surprising. 'I'm not dead yet, so don't let any one order me about as if I were--curse you, you bald-headed old fool!' This was to Hancock; the top of whose scalp is smooth. 'I'm not going to have my brother mixed up with a bold-faced judy; he's not going to make a girl of whom I disapprove the Marchioness of Twickenham. I tell you, Foster, that if Reggie marries that jade--if he marries--if he----'

He stopped as if at a loss for a word. Then a shudder passed all over him; his whole frame became perceptibly rigid; he dropped back, still. Hancock turned to us.

'I think if one of you gentlemen were to take the ladies out. I'm afraid this may be serious.'

As we were going, the door opened to admit Dr. Robert White. I welcomed him.

'Dr. White, you are just in time. I don't know if you are known to Sir Gregory Hancock. Your patient has just had a relapse.'

The two doctors bent together in consultation over the bed. Edith touched me on the arm.

'Let us wait,' she whispered.

Presently Hancock spoke to Reggie.

'My lord marquis, it becomes my painful duty to inform you that your brother is dead.'

It was a diplomatic way of announcing the news. Vi, as usual, told the truth with too much candour: 'He was a wicked man; he died as he had lived.'

Hancock shook his head.

'Of the dead, my dear young lady, let no man speak ill.'

I led her from the room, Edith following with Reggie. So soon as I got her outside I started to scold her there and then.

'I need not tell you, Violet, that you have behaved very badly.'

'You should not have let him touch me. I could not bear his fingers against my skin.' She shuddered at the recollection. 'Those dreadful hands! To think of all they've done!'

'You might at least have remembered that the man was on the threshold of the grave. One day you may yourself stand in need of a lenient judgment.'

'I wish I'd never seen him.'

'I wish it also. The mischief you have done is irrevocable. If it hadn't been for you a will would be in existence by the terms of which Reggie would be in indisputable possession of everything.'

'But, surely, the destruction of that piece of paper will make no difference.'

'Won't it? You wait till you hear what Foster has to say.'

'Reggie, is it true that I've done you so much harm?'

'My dear Vi, you've done me no harm at all. Douglas exaggerates. If I had been in your place I should have said and done exactly what you said and did. But, come--hadn't you better go? There's no use your staying now. We'll follow you as soon as we can.'

As we were going down the stairs I heard her whisper in his ear--'My lord marquis!'

What he said I did not catch; but it was something which made her smile.

So they went, and we were left to minister to the dead man.