ill-grown beard. His eyes were watching the door, and he showed some
signs of gratification at Jocelyn's entrance. Gant, who was standing
over the bed, turned apologetically towards the latter.

"It's the money," he whispered. "He is worrying about that. I was
obliged to send for you. He called out your name just now, and the
ship's doctor was hanging around."

The newcomer drew a stool to the side of the bed, opened a pocketbook
and counted out a great wad of notes. The dying man watched him with
every appearance of interest.

"Five thousand dollars," the former said at last. "That should bring
in about eleven hundred and fifty pounds. Now watch me, Phillips."

He took an envelope from his pocket, thrust the notes inside, gummed
down the flap, and, drawing a fountain pen from his pocket, wrote an
address. The dying man watched him and nodded feebly.

"These," Jocelyn continued, "are for your wife. The packet shall be
delivered to her within twelve hours of our landing in Liverpool. You
can keep it under your pillow and hand it over to Miss Beverley here.
You trust her?"

The man on the bed nodded feebly and turned slightly towards
Katharine. She bent over him.

"I shall see myself," she promised, "that the money is properly
delivered."