“Oblige me by doing nothing of the kind,” said my father, very decisively.  “It would displease me extremely.”

The Chevalier counted out the eight little pink cards, and ranged them in a row beside my father’s desk.

“Count them, Monsieur, if you please,” said he, his eyes wandering involuntarily towards the sovereign.

My father did so with much gravity, and handed over the money.

The Chevalier consigned it, with trembling fingers, to a small canvas bag, which looked very empty, and which came from the deepest recesses of his pocket.

“Monsieur,” said he, “my thanks are in my heart.  I will not fatigue you with them.  Good-morning.”

He bowed again, for perhaps the twentieth time; lingered a moment at the threshold; and then retired, closing the door softly after him.

My father rubbbed his head all over, and gave a great yawn of satisfaction.

“I am so much obliged to you, sir,” I said, eagerly.

“What for?”

“For having bought those tickets.  It was very kind of you.”

“Hold your tongue.  I hate to be thanked,” snarled he, and plunged back again into his books and papers.

Once more the studious silence in the room—­once more the rustling leaf and scratching pen, which only made the stillness seem more still, within and without.

“I beg your pardons,” murmured the voice of the little Chevalier.

I turned, and saw him peeping through the half-open door.  He looked more wistful than ever, and twisted the handle nervously between his fingers.

My father frowned, and muttered something between his teeth.  I fear it was not very complimentary to the Chevalier.

“One word, Monsieur,” pleaded the little man, edging himself round the door, “one small word!”

“Say it, sir, and have done with it,” said my father, savagely.

The Chevalier hesitated.

“I—­I—­Monsieur le Docteur—­that is, I wish....”

“Confound it, sir, what do you wish?”

The Chevalier brushed away a tear.

“Dites-moi," he said with suppressed agitation.  “One word—­yes or no—­is he dangerous?”

My father’s countenance softened.

“My good friend,” he said, gently, “we are none of us safe for even a day, or an hour; but after all, that which we call danger is merely a relative position.  I have known men in a state more precarious than yours who lived to a long old age, and I see no reason to doubt that with good living, good spirits, and precaution, you stand as fair a chance as another.”

The little Frenchman pressed his hands together in token of gratitude, whispered a broken word or two of thanks, and bowed himself out of the room.

When he was fairly gone, my father flung a book at my head, and said, with more brevity than politeness:—­

“Boy, bolt the door.”

CHAPTER III.