Without stopping to reflect, I left the apartment, and hurried down to the parlor.  I found a man walking the floor in a very excited manner.

“I wish to see Mr. W.——­,” said he, abruptly, and in an imperative way.

“He is very ill, sir,” I replied, “and cannot be seen.”

“I must see him, sick or well.”  His manner was excited.

“Impossible, sir.”

The door bell rang again at this moment, and with some violence.  I paused, and stood listening until the servant answered the summons, while the man strode twice the full length of the parlor.

“I wish to see Mr. W——.”  It was the voice of a man.

“He is sick,” the servant replied.

“Give him my name—­Mr. Walton—­and say that I must see him for just a moment.”  And this new visitor came in past the waiter, and entered the parlor.

“Mr. Arnold!” he ejaculated, in evident surprise.

“Humph!  This a nice business!” remarked the first visitor, in a rude way, entirely indifferent to my presence or feelings.  “A nice business, I must confess!”

“Have you seen Mr. W.——?” was inquired.

“No.  They say he’s sick.”

There was an unconcealed doubt in the voice that uttered this.

“Gentlemen,” said I, stung into indignant courage, “this is an outrage!  What do you mean by it?”

“We wish to see your father,” said the last comer, his manner changing, and his voice respectful.

“You have both been told,” was my firm reply, “that my father is too ill to be seen.”

“It isn’t an hour, as I am told, since he left his store,” said the first visitor, “and I hardly think his illness has progressed so rapidly up to this time as to make an interview dangerous.  We do not wish to be rude or uncourteous, Miss W——­, but our business with your father is imperative, and we must see him.  I, for one, do not intend leaving the house until I meet him face to face!”

“Will you walk up stairs?” I had the presence of mind and decision to say, and I moved from the parlor into the passage.  The men followed, and I led them up to the chamber where our distressed family were gathered around my father.  As we entered the hushed apartment the men pressed forward somewhat eagerly, but their steps were suddenly arrested.  The sight was one to make its own impression.  My father’s face, deathly in its hue, was turned towards the door, and from his bared arm a stream of dark blood was flowing sluggishly.  The physician had just opened a vein.

“Come!  This is no place for us,” I heard one of the men whisper to the other, and they withdrew as unceremoniously as they had entered.  Scarcely had they gone ere the loud ringing of the door bell sounded through the house again.

“What does all this mean!” whispered my distressed mother.

“I cannot tell.  Something is wrong,” was all that I could answer; and a vague, terrible fear took possession of my heart.