“When poor old Adrian’s dead.”

“Where shall I see you?”

“Where shall you not?”

Instead of speaking his next question, Borlsover wrote it.  “What is the time?”

The fingers dropped the pencil and moved three or four times across the paper.  Then, picking up the pencil, they wrote: 

“Ten minutes before four.  Put your book away, Eustace.  Adrian mustn’t find us working at this sort of thing.  He doesn’t know what to make of it, and I won’t have poor old Adrian disturbed. Au revoir.”

Adrian Borlsover awoke with a start.

“I’ve been dreaming again,” he said; “such queer dreams of leaguered cities and forgotten towns.  You were mixed up in this one, Eustace, though I can’t remember how.  Eustace, I want to warn you.  Don’t walk in doubtful paths.  Choose your friends well.  Your poor grandfather——­”

A fit of coughing put an end to what he was saying, but Eustace saw that the hand was still writing.  He managed unnoticed to draw the book away.  “I’ll light the gas,” he said, “and ring for tea.”  On the other side of the bed curtain he saw the last sentences that had been written.

“It’s too late, Adrian,” he read.  “We’re friends already; aren’t we, Eustace Borlsover?”

On the following day Eustace Borlsover left.  He thought his uncle looked ill when he said good-by, and the old man spoke despondently of the failure his life had been.

“Nonsense, uncle!” said his nephew.  “You have got over your difficulties in a way not one in a hundred thousand would have done.  Every one marvels at your splendid perseverance in teaching your hand to take the place of your lost sight.  To me it’s been a revelation of the possibilities of education.”

“Education,” said his uncle dreamily, as if the word had started a new train of thought, “education is good so long as you know to whom and for what purpose you give it.  But with the lower orders of men, the base and more sordid spirits, I have grave doubts as to its results.  Well, good-by, Eustace, I may not see you again.  You are a true Borlsover, with all the Borlsover faults.  Marry, Eustace.  Marry some good, sensible girl.  And if by any chance I don’t see you again, my will is at my solicitor’s.  I’ve not left you any legacy, because I know you’re well provided for, but I thought you might like to have my books.  Oh, and there’s just one other thing.  You know, before the end people often lose control over themselves and make absurd requests.  Don’t pay any attention to them, Eustace.  Good-by!” and he held out his hand.  Eustace took it.  It remained in his a fraction of a second longer than he had expected, and gripped him with a virility that was surprising.  There was, too, in its touch a subtle sense of intimacy.

“Why, uncle!” he said, “I shall see you alive and well for many long years to come.”

Two months later Adrian Borlsover died.