apparently he intended to take up his future abode, Mordaunt Appleby the brewer having offered him a situation as brewery accountant.  The opportunity occurred last night, so I hear.  He managed to get off with his luggage in a trap, and duly arrived at the Crown Inn.  There he was set upon in the taproom by certain old friends and gambling associates, who accused him of wilfully attempting to injure Miss Vancourt.  He denied it.  Thereupon they challenged him to drink ten glasses of raw whiskey, one on top of another, to prove his innocence.  It was a base and brutal business, but he accepted the challenge.  At the eighth glass he fell down unconscious.  His companions thought he was merely drunk—­but—­as it turned out—­he was dead.” [Footnote:  This incident happened lately in a village in the south of England.]

Walden heard in silence.

“It’s horrible!” he said at last—­“Yet—­I cannot say sorry!  I suppose as a Christian minister I ought to be,—­but I’m not!  I only hope none of my people were concerned in the matter?”

“You may be quite easy on that score,”—­replied Forsyth—­“Of course there will be an inquest, and a severe reproof will be administered to the men who challenged him,—­but there the affair will end.  I really don’t think we need grieve ourselves unduly over the exit of one scoundrel from a world already overburdened with his species.”  With that, he turned and poked the fire into a brighter blaze.  “Let us talk of something else”—­he said.  “I called in to tell you that Santori is in London, and that I have taken the responsibility upon myself of sending for him to see Miss Vancourt.”

Walden was instantly all earnest attention.

“Who is Santori?” he asked.

“Santori,” replied Forsyth, “is a great Italian, whose scientific researches into medicine and surgery have won him the honour of all nations, save and except the British.  We are very insular, my dear Walden!—­we never will tolerate the ‘furriner’ even if he brings us health and healing in his hand!  Santori is a medical ‘furriner,’ therefore he is generally despised by the English medical profession.  But I’m a Scotsman—­I’ve no prejudices except my own!” And he laughed—­“And I acknowledge Santori as one of the greatest men of the age.  He is a scientist as well as a surgeon—­and his great ‘speciality’ is the spine and nerves.  Now I have never quite explained to you the nature of Miss Vancourt’s injuries, and there is no need even now to particularise them.  The main point of her case is that in the condition she is now, she must remain a cripple for life,—­and” here he hesitated,—­“that life cannot, I fear, be a very long one.”

Walden turned his head away for a moment.

“Go on!” he said huskily.

“At the same time,” continued Dr. Forsyth, gently—­“there are no bones broken,—­all the mischief is centred in damage to the spine.  I sent, as you know, for Wentworth Glynn, our best specialist in this country, and he assured me there was no hope whatever of any change for the better.  Yesterday, I happened to see in the papers that Santori had arrived in London for a few weeks, and, acting on a sudden inspiration, I wrote him a letter at once, explaining the whole case, and asking him to meet me in consultation.  He has wired an answer to-day, saying he will be here to-morrow.”