elf, of her own sufferings
and her own death that she thought. It was all of me. The one pang
which her fate brought to her was the fear that when her influence was
removed I should revert to that which I had been. It was in vain that
I made oath to her that no drop of wine would ever cross my lips. She
knew only too well the hold that the devil had upon me--she who had
striven so to loosen it--and it haunted her night and day the thought
that my soul might again be within his grip.

"It was from some friend's gossip of the sick room that she heard of
this invention--this phonograph--and with the quick insight of a loving
woman she saw how she might use it for her ends. She sent me to London
to procure the best which money could buy. With her dying breath she
gasped into it the words which have held me straight ever since.
Lonely and broken, what else have I in all the world to uphold me? But
it is enough. Please God, I shall face her without shame when He is
pleased to reunite us! That is my secret, Mr. Colmore, and whilst I
live I leave it in your keeping."

The Black Doctor

Bishop's Crossing is a small village lying ten miles in a
south-westerly direction from Liverpool. Here in the early seventies
there settled a doctor named Aloysius Lana. Nothing was known locally
either of his antecedents or of the reasons which had prompted him to
come to this Lancashire hamlet. Two facts only were certain about him;
the one that he had gained his medical qualification with some
distinction at Glasgow; the other that he came undoubtedly of a
tropical race, and was so dark that he might almost have had a strain
of the Indian in his composition. His predominant features were,
however, European, and he possessed a stately courtesy and carriage
which suggested a Spanish extraction. A swarthy skin, raven-black
hair, and dark, sparkling eyes under a pair of heavily-tufted brows
made a strange contrast to the flaxen or chestnut rustics of England,
and the newcomer was soon known as "The Black Doctor of Bishop's
Crossing." At first it was a term of ridicule and reproach; as the
years went on it became a title of honour which was familiar to the
whole countryside, and extended far beyond the narrow confines of the
village.

For the newcomer proved himself to be a capable surgeon and an
accomplished physician. The practice of that district had been in the
hands of Edward Rowe, the son of Sir William Rowe, the Liver