again exhausted as Joan's step was heard on the stairs. Gunn gave
a savage glance of warning at him, and barring the progress of the girl
at the door, attempted to salute her. Joan came in pale and trembling,
and falling on her knees by the bedside, took her father's hand in hers
and wept over it. The innkeeper gave a faint groan and a shiver ran
through his body.

It was nearly an hour after midnight that Nick Gunn, kicking off his
shoes, went stealthily out onto the landing. A little light came from
the partly open door of the sick-room, but all else was in blackness. He
moved along and peered in.

The nurse was siting in a high-backed oak chair by the fire. She had
slipped down in the seat, and her untidy head hung on her bosom. A glass
stood on the small oak table by her side, and a solitary candle on the
high mantel-piece diffused a sickly light. Gunn entered the room, and
finding that the sick man was dozing, shook him roughly.

The innkeeper opened his eyes and gazed at him blankly.

"Wake, you fool," said Gunn, shaking him again.

The other roused and muttered something incoherently. Then he stirred
slightly.

"The nurse," he whispered.

"She's safe enow," said Gunn. "I've seen to that."

He crossed the room lightly, and standing before the unconscious woman,