latter, evidently enough, was in the throes of some sudden
illness or seizure. His fresh-coloured face was growing
positively livid, and he plucked at the edge of the table with
twitching fingers. As Harley reached his side he made a sudden
effort to stand up, throwing out his arm to grasp the other's
shoulder.

"Benson!" cried Harley, loudly. "Quick! Your master is ill!"

There came a sound of swift footsteps and the door was thrown
open.

"Too late," whispered Sir Charles in a choking voice. He began to
clutch his throat as Benson hurried into the room.

"My God!" whispered Harley. "He is dying!"

Indeed, the truth was all too apparent. Sir Charles Abingdon was
almost past speech. He was glaring across the table as though he
saw some ghastly apparition there. And now with appalling
suddenness he became as a dead weight in Harley's supporting
grasp. Raspingly, as if forced in agony from his lips:

"Fire-Tongue," he said . . . "Nicol Brinn..."

Benson, white and terror-stricken, bent over him.

"Sir Charles!" he kept muttering. "Sir Charles! What is the
matter, sir?"