they were alone.

The other made a gesture and Dr. Milsom nodded.

"It's good stuff," he said. "I used to give it to lunatics in the days
of long ago."

Van Heerden did not ask him what those days were. He never pryed too
closely into the early lives of his associates, but Milsom's history was
public property. Four years before he had completed a "life sentence" of
fifteen years for a crime which had startled the world in '99.

"How are things generally?" he asked.

Van Heerden shrugged his shoulders.

"For the first time I am getting nervous," he said. "It isn't so much
the fear of Beale that rattles me, but the sordid question of money. The
expenses are colossal and continuous."

"Hasn't your--Government"--Milsom balked at the word--"haven't your
friends abroad moved in the matter yet?"

Van Heerden shook his head.

"I am very hopeful there," he said. "I have been watching the papers
very closely, especially the Agrarian papers, and, unless I am mistaken,
there is a decided movement in the direction of support. But I can't
depend on that. The marriage must go through to-morrow."

"White is getting nervous, too," he went on. "He is pestering me about
the money I owe him, or rather the syndicate owes him. He's on the verge
of ruin."

Milsom made a little grimace.

"Then he'll squeal," he said, "those kind of people always do. You'll
have to keep him quiet. You say the marriage is coming off to-morrow?"

"I have notified the parson," said van Heerden. "I told him my fiancee
is too ill to attend the church and the ceremony must be performed
here."

Milsom nodded. He had risen from the table and was looking out upon the
pleasant garden at the rear of the house.

"A man could do worse than put in three or four weeks here," he said.
"Look at that spread of green."

He pointed to an expanse of waving grasses, starred with the
vari-coloured blossoms of wild flowers.

"I was never a lover of nature," said van Heerden, carelessly.

Milsom grunted.

"You have never been in prison," he said cryptically. "Is it time to
give your lady another dose?"

"Not for two hours," said van Heerden. "I will play you at piquet."

The cards were shuffled and the hands dealt when there was a scamper of
feet in the hall, the door burst open and a man ran in. He was wearing a
soiled white smock and his face was distorted with terror.

"M'sieur, m'sieur," he cried, "that imbecile Bridgers!"

"What's wrong?" Van Heerden