"Oh, Doctor Arbuthnot! Doctor Arbuthnot!" cried a dozen voices at once,
"the Conjuror is dying!"

"For which reason, I suppose, you are all trying to smother him!" said
my father angrily. "Mistress Cobbe, I beg you will not trouble yourself
to pour that brandy down the man's throat. He has no more power to
swallow it than my stick. Basil, open the window, and help me to loosen
these things about his throat. Good people, all, I must request you to
leave the room. This man's life is in peril, and I can do nothing while
you remain. Go home--go home. You will see no more conjuring to-night."

My father was peremptory, and the crowd unwillingly dispersed. One by
one they left the room and gathered discontentedly in the passage. When
it came to the last two or three, he took them by the shoulders, closed
the door upon them, and turned the key.

Only the landlady, and elderly woman-servant, and myself remained.

The first thing my father did was to examine the pupil of the patient's
eye, and lay his hand upon his heart. It still fluttered feebly, but the
action of the lungs was suspended, and his hands and feet were cold
as death.

My father shook his head.

"This man must be bled," said he, "but I have little hope of saving
him."

He was bled, and, though still unconscious, became less rigid They then