made up for him in the house by his own directions. `Has the fever turned to infection?' I whispered to him. `I am afraid it has,' he answered, `we shall know better tomorrow morning.'

By Mr Dawson's own directions Lady Glyde was kept in ignorance of this change for the worse. He himself absolutely forbade her, on account of her health, to join us in the bedroom that night. She tried to resist -- there was a sad scene -- but he had his medical authority to support him, and he carried his point.

The next morning one of the man-servants was sent to London at eleven o'clock, with a letter to a physician in town, and with orders to bring the new doctor back with him by the earliest possible train. Half an hour after the messenger had gone the Count returned to Blackwater Park.

The Countess, on her own responsibility, immediately brought him in to see the patient. There was no impropriety that I could discover in her taking this course. His lordship was a married man, he was old enough to be Miss Halcombe's father, and he saw her in the presence of a female relative, Lady Glyde's aunt. Mr Dawson nevertheless protested against his presence in the room, but I could plainly remark the doctor was too much alarmed to make any serious resistance on this occasion.

The poor suffering lady was past knowing any one about her. She seemed to take her friends for enemies. When the Count approached her bedside her eyes, which had been wandering incessantly round and round the root,: before, settled on his face with a dreadful stare of terror, which I shall remember to my dying day. The Count sat down by her, felt her pulse and her temples, looked at her very attentively, and then turned round upon the doctor with such an expression of indignation and contempt in his face, that the words failed on Mr Dawson's lips, and he stood for a moment, pale with anger and alarm -- pale and perfectly speechless.

His lordship looked next at me.

`When did the change happen?' he asked.

I told him the time.

`Has Lady Glyde been in the room since?'

I replied that she had not. The doctor had absolutely forbidden her to come into the room on the evening before, and had repeated the order again in the morning.

`Have you and Mrs Rubelle been made aware of the full extent of the mischief?' was his next question.

We were aware, I answered, that the malady was considered infectious. He stopped me before I could add anything more.

`It is typhus fever,' he said.

In the minute that passed, while these questions and answers were going on, Mr Dawson recovered himself, and addressed the Count with his customary firmness.

`It is not typhus fever,' he remarked sharply. `I protest against this intrusion, sir. No one has a right to put questions here but me. I have done my duty to the best of my ability --'

The Count interrupted him -- not by words, but only by pointing to the bed. Mr Dawson seemed to feel that silent contradiction to his assertion of his own ability, and to grow only the more angry under it.

`I say I have done my duty,' he reiterated. `A physician has been sent for from London. I will consult on the nature of the fever with him, and with no one else. I insist on your leaving the room.'