“You are all right,” he said, gaily.  “Action of the heart a little weak, that’s all—­only,” impressively, “avoid excitement—­avoid excitement.”

Just as Frettlby was putting on his coat, a knock came to the door, and Madge entered.

“Brian is gone,” she began.  “Oh, I beg your pardon, doctor—­but is papa ill?” she asked with sudden fear.

“No, child, no,” said Frettlby, hastily, “I’m all right; I thought my heart was affected, but it isn’t.”

“Not a bit of it,” answered Chinston, reassuringly.  “All right—­only avoid excitement.”

But when Frettlby turned to go to the door, Madge, who had her eyes fixed on the doctor’s face, saw how grave it was.

“There is danger?” she said, touching his arm as they paused for a moment at the door.

“No!  No!” he answered, hastily.

“Yes, there is,” she persisted.  “Tell me the worst, it is best for me to know.”

The doctor looked at her in some doubt for a few moments, and then placed his hand on her shoulder.

“My dear young lady,” he said gravely, “I will tell you what I have not dared to tell your father.”

“What?” she asked in a low voice, her face growing pale.

“His heart is affected.”

“And there is great danger?”

“Yes, great danger.  In the event of any sudden shock—­” he hesitated.

“Yes—­”

“He would probably drop down dead.”

“My God!”

CHAPTER XXVI.

KILSIP HAS A THEORY OF HIS OWN.

Mr. Calton sat in his office reading a letter he had just received from Fitzgerald, and judging from the complacent smile upon his face it seemed to give him the greatest satisfaction.

“I know,” wrote Brian, “that now you have taken up the affair, you will not stop until you find out everything, so, as I want the matter to rest as at present, I will anticipate you, and reveal all.  You were right in your conjecture that I knew something likely to lead to the detection of Whyte’s murderer; but when I tell you my reasons for keeping such a thing secret, I am sure you will not blame me.  Mind you, I do not say that I know who committed the murder; but I have suspicions—­very strong suspicions—­and I wish to God Rosanna Moore had died before she told me what she did.  However, I will tell you all, and leave you to judge as to whether I was justified in concealing what I was told.  I will call at your office some time next week, and then you will learn everything that Rosanna Moore told me; but once that you are possessed of the knowledge you will pity me.”

“Most extraordinary,” mused Calton, leaning back in his chair, as he laid down the letter.  “I wonder if he’s about to tell me that he killed Whyte after all, and that Sal Rawlins perjured herself to save him!  No, that’s nonsense, or she’d have turned up in better time, and wouldn’t have risked his neck up to the last moment.  Though I make it a rule never to be surprised at anything, I expect what Brian Fitzgerald has to tell me will startle me considerably.  I’ve never met with such an extraordinary case, and from all appearances the end isn’t reached yet.  After all,” said Mr. Calton, thoughtfully, “truth is stranger than fiction.”