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“As ill, you mean,” said the doctor. “He has been breaking up fast for the last six months. The mystery, or shadow, or whatever it is, is killing him, for the man is not really old. Have you ever noticed the extraordinary gloom on his face?”

“Yes, and no,” replied Rowton. “I thought him a queer old card, but to be frank with you, I don’t go to the Grange to study old Dr. Follett.”

The moon shone out at this moment, and Dr. Read favoured the bold outline of the young man who stood by his side with a keen glance.

“That girl is as fine a creature as ever breathed,” he said with apparent inconsequence; “take care, young sir, that you do not do her an injury; but now I must be off. Follett is dying because there is a shadow over him and the shadow is killing him. Well, I must not stay here any longer. Good night to you, Mr. Rowton.”

“One moment before you go, doctor. Is Miss Nancy all alone?”

“No, I sent in a nurse this morning. Good-night, I must not stay here any longer.”

The doctor got back into his gig and drove away, and Rowton stood for a brief moment at his horse’s head. He was a man of quick action at all times.