“I’m going to live.”

“Wait a minute.  We’ll have the table cleared, and a kettle on the fire.”

While the servant was busy, Hilliard stood with an elbow on the mantelpiece, thoughtfully smoking his cigar.  At Narramore’s request, he mixed two tumblers of whisky toddy, then took a draught from his own, and returned to his former position.

“Can’t you sit down?” said Narramore.

“No, I can’t.”

“What a fellow you are!  With nerves like yours, I should have been in my grave years ago.  You’re going to live, eh?”

“Going to be a machine no longer.  Can I call myself a man?  There’s precious little difference between a fellow like me and the damned grinding mechanism that I spend my days in drawing—­that roars all day in my ears and deafens me.  I’ll put an end to that.  Here’s four hundred pounds.  It shall mean four hundred pounds’-worth of life.  While this money lasts, I’ll feel that I’m a human being.”

“Something to be said for that,” commented the listener, in his tone of drowsy impartiality.

“I offered Emily half of it.  She didn’t want to take it, and the man Marr wouldn’t let her.  I offered to lay it aside for the child, but Marr wouldn’t have that either, It’s fairly mine.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Think!  The first time in my life that I’ve had money on which no one else had a claim.  When the poor old father died, Will and I had to go shares in keeping up the home.  Our sister couldn’t earn anything; she had her work set in attending to her mother.  When mother died, and Marian married, it looked as if I had only myself to look after:  then came Will’s death, and half my income went to keep his wife and child from the workhouse.  You know very well I’ve never grudged it.  It’s my faith that we do what we do because anything else would be less agreeable.  It was more to my liking to live on a pound a week than to see Emily and the little lass suffer want.  I’ve no right to any thanks or praise for it.  But the change has come none too soon.  There’d have been a paragraph in the Dudley paper some rainy morning.”

“Yes, I was rather afraid of that,” said Narramore musingly.

He let a minute elapse, whilst his friend paced the room; then added in the same voice: 

“We’re in luck at the same tune.  My uncle Sol was found dead this morning.”

“Do you come in for much?”

“We don’t know what he’s left, but I’m down for a substantial fraction in a will he made three years ago.  Nobody knew it, but he’s been stark mad for the last six months.  He took a bed-room out Bordesley way, in a false name, and stored it with a ton or two of tinned meats and vegetables.  There the landlady found him lying dead this morning; she learnt who he was from the papers in his pocket.  It’s come out that he had made friends with some old boozer of that neighbourhood; he told him that England was on the point of a grand financial smash,