strange giddiness,
followed by intolerable pain, seized him. It passed off, leaving him
very faint. He raised his hand to his brow and looked around him in a
dazed way.

"What is wrong," asked Rycroft; "are you ill?"

"I suffer from this sort of thing now and then," replied Ogilvie,
bringing out his words in short gasps. "Brandy, please."

Rycroft sprang to a side table, poured out a glass of brandy, and
brought it to Ogilvie.

"You look ghastly," he said; "drink."

Ogilvie raised the stimulant to his lips. He took a few sips, and the
color returned to his face.

"Now sign," said Rycroft again.

"Where is the pen?" asked Ogilvie.

He was all too anxious now to take the fatal plunge. His signature,
firm and bold, was put to the document. He pushed it from him and
stood up. Rycroft hastily added his beneath that of Ogilvie's.

"Now our work is done," cried Rycroft, "and Her Majesty's mail does
the rest. By the way, I cabled a brilliant report an hour back.
Grayleigh seemed anxious. There have been ominous reports in some of
the London papers."

"This will set matters right," said Ogilvie. "Put it in an envelope.
If I sail to-morrow, I may as well take it myself."

"Her Majesty's mail would be best," answered Rycroft. "You can see
Grayleigh almost as soon as he gets the report. Remember, I am
responsible for it as well as you, and it would be best for it to go
in the ordinary way." As he spoke, he stretched out his hand, took the
document and folded it up.

Just at this moment there came a tap at the door. Rycroft cried, "Come
in," and a messenger entered with a cablegram.

"For Mr. Ogilvie," he said.

"From Grayleigh, of course," said Rycroft, "how impatient he gets!
Wait outside," he continued to the messenger.

The man withdrew, and Ogilvie slowly opened the telegram. Rycroft
watched him as he read. He read slowly, and with no apparent change of
feature. The message was short, but when his eyes had travelled to
the end, he read from the beginning right through again. Then, without
the slightest warning, and without even uttering a groan, the flimsy
paper fluttered from his hand, he tumbled forward, and lay in an
unconscious heap on the floor.

Rycroft ran to him. He took a certain interest in Ogilvie, but above
all things on earth at that moment he wanted to get the document which
contained the false report safely into the post. Before he attempted
to restore the stricken man, he took up the cableg