this."

"You--you knew he was very ill," sobbed Janet.

"Yes; but I knew no more."

"How could we tell you when you were nearly dead?" sobbed Janet; "and
the doctor said you were not to be troubled in any way."

Mark Heath stood as if dazed for a few minutes, striving to think
coherently, and master the delusion, under which he had been suffering.

"Rich," he cried at last, "for God's sake, tell me all!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A PHYSICIAN UNHEALED.

James Poynter sat polishing his hat with his handkerchief, and staring
at Hendon with a contraction, half smile, half grin, upon his face.

"I tell you I can't pay you. You forced the money upon me."

"I forced it on you! Come, that's a good one! Now, are you going to
pay?"

"You know I can't, Poynter. You must wait."

"Not likely. Well, I must have my money, and what your father owes me
too."

"I have only your word that he does owe you money, James Poynter."

"All right, Mr Hendon; go on. Insult me. The more patient I am the
more advantage you take. Ask him if he don't."

"Ask him?" said the young man bitterly; "you know his mind is as good as
gone."

"Is it as bad as that?" said Poynter, with assumed pity, but his eyes
twinkling with eagerness, as he wound the handkerchief round and round.

"Bad? Yes. Millington, our best man, saw him yesterday, and he says
nothing but an operation and raising the bone pressing on the brain will
relieve him; and at his age he would not be responsible for the result."

Poynter drew a breath fall of satisfaction, and smiled at his polished
hat.

"Well, I think the operation ought to be performed, so as to bring him
to his senses again. Poor old boy! He does seem queer. I asked him--"

"What, you spoke to that poor old man about your cursed debt!" cried
Hendon furiously.

"Of course I did. Cursed debt, indeed! Why, I've behaved as well as a
man could behave. Lookye here, do you want me to sell you up?"

Hendon uttered an ejaculation, and, writhing under his impotence, he
began pacing the old dining-room, while with a show of proprietorship
James Poynter set down his hat, put his handkerchief therein, took out
his case, and selected a cigar.

"Have a weed?" he said, nipping the end of the one he was about to
smoke.

"Damn you, and your cigars too!" cried the young man furiously.

"Thank ye, cub!" said Poynter, lighting up. "There, you won't make me
waxy. I'm a true friend in disguise. Ah, th