He held up the candle, and looked at his own face in the glass.  It had been a beautiful face, but disease had wrecked it.  “Food for the worms,” he said.  “Curious to think that in a few hours I shall be stiff and cold—­the journey done, the little game played out.  Ah me, Holly! life is not worth the trouble of life, except when one is in love—­at least, mine has not been; but the boy Leo’s may be if he has the courage and the faith.  Good-bye, my friend!” and with a sudden access of tenderness he flung his arm about me and kissed me on the forehead, and then turned to go.

“Look here, Vincey,” I said, “if you are as ill as you think, you had better let me fetch a doctor.”

“No, no,” he said earnestly.  “Promise me that you won’t.  I am going to die, and, like a poisoned rat, I wish to die alone.”

“I don’t believe that you are going to do anything of the sort,” I answered.  He smiled, and, with the word “Remember” on his lips, was gone.  As for myself, I sat down and rubbed my eyes, wondering if I had been asleep.  As this supposition would not bear investigation I gave it up and began to think that Vincey must have been drinking.  I knew that he was, and had been, very ill, but still it seemed impossible that he could be in such a condition as to be able to know for certain that he would not outlive the night.  Had he been so near dissolution surely he would scarcely have been able to walk, and carry a heavy iron box with him.  The whole story, on reflection, seemed to me utterly incredible, for I was not then old enough to be aware how many things happen in this world that the common sense of the average man would set down as so improbable as to be absolutely impossible.  This is a fact that I have only recently mastered.  Was it likely that a man would have a son five years of age whom he had never seen since he was a tiny infant?  No.  Was it likely that he could foretell his own death so accurately?  No.  Was it likely that he could trace his pedigree for more than three centuries before Christ, or that he would suddenly confide the absolute guardianship of his child, and leave half his fortune, to a college friend?  Most certainly not.  Clearly Vincey was either drunk or mad.  That being so, what did it mean? and what was in the sealed iron chest?

The whole thing baffled and puzzled me to such an extent that at last I could stand it no longer, and determined to sleep over it.  So I jumped up, and having put the keys and the letter that Vincey had left away into my despatch-box, and stowed the iron chest in a large portmanteau, I turned in, and was soon fast asleep.

As it seemed to me, I had only been asleep for a few minutes when I was awakened by somebody calling me.  I sat up and rubbed my eyes; it was broad daylight—­eight o’clock, in fact.

“Why, what is the matter with you, John?” I asked of the gyp who waited on Vincey and myself.  “You look as though you had seen a ghost!”