cried the old man, brightening up; "that is very good of you,
doctor--very good. I feel better already in anticipation. Now, let me
see--let me see."

He opened the library table drawer and took out a box of matches and an
old-fashioned, curled-up twist of wax taper, such as was the
accompaniment of a writing-table in sealing-wax days, fifty years or so
ago. This latter he lit, and then hung a large old key upon his little
finger.

"The library next time you come, doctor; the cellar this time. A very
fine cellar of wines, my dear sir, but wasted upon me. Just a glass now
and then as a medicine. This way. I hope you will not mind the dust
and cobwebs. An old-fashioned notion, but books seem to need the dust
of ages, and it is precious upon them, just as old port ought to have
its cobwebs and its crust. You will come with me to get a bottle?"

"Oh yes," said Chester, and he followed the old man out of the room into
the book-encumbered hall, and along to the back, past chest and shelf,
to where there was the glass door opening on the stone flight leading
down into the basement.

"This way, my dear sir. One moment; there should be a basket here.
Yes, here we are; would you mind lighting me? Thank you."

Chester took the wax taper and lighted the old man, while he took down
from behind the glass door, where it hung upon a hook, one of those
cradle-like baskets in which a bottle of rich old wine can recline
without destroying its fineness.

"You see," said the old man, "I am a bit of a connoisseur. I like to
keep my wine as it has lain in the bin. No decanting for me. Straight
on down, my dear sir."

Chester did not hesitate, but led on down the stone stairs, holding the
light on high, the tiny taper shining back upon a pair of flashing eyes
and the wrinkles of a now wonderfully wrinkled face, while in the
shadows behind a thin, claw-like hand glided to the breast-pocket of the
old-fashioned coat, to draw out one of those misnamed weapons formed of
twisted whalebone, ending in a weighty leaden knob.

Chester bore the light; behind him seemed to hover upon the dingy walls
the Shadow of Death.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

BY THE SKIN OF HIS TEETH.

The Shadow passed away.

In another moment a crushing blow from a life-preserver, delivered by a
vigorous arm, would have fallen upon the back of Chester's skull, and
sent him headlong down the flight of stairs; but the deadly weapon was
thrust back into its