"Oh, nothing--nothing!" Lancaster sat up. "I feel a bit fagged to-day.
I--I'm rather glad that bit of business is over. I didn't like it, though
it was only a matter of--"

"Perhaps nothing; perhaps half a million--"

"'Sh, Bullard! We must not think of such a thing. Christopher may live
for many years, and--"

"He won't do that! The attacks are becoming more frequent."

"--And with all my heart I hope the boy will return safely."

"And so say we all of us!" returned Bullard. "Only I like to be prepared
for emergencies. After all, we can't be positive that Christopher will do
the friendly to us when the time comes, and Alan being the only relative
is certain to benefit, more or less. Our own prospects are not so bright
as they were. Of course, you've run through a pile--at least, Mrs.
Lancaster has done it for you--"

"If you please, Bullard--"

"Come in!"

A clerk entered, handed a telegram to Lancaster, and withdrew.

Bullard lounged over to one of the windows, and lit a cigarette.
Presently a queer sound caused him to turn sharply. Lancaster was lying
back, his face chalky.