He himself was puzzled over Sir Grimthorpe's condition but was a little offended at not being personally consulted.
The fact was that Sir G.had a very poor opinion of his abilities in diagnosis and being naturally secretive and generally cussed, preferred consulting a London specialist.

He wasn't then Sir Grimthorpe, the specialist wasn't very certain that it _was_ cancer on the liver, and amid his multitude of consulters did not, unless aroused, remember very clearly the case of a Mr.Shillito from somewhere up in the North.
But Shillito pondered gravely over the specialist's carefully guarded phrases about "growths, possibly malign, but at the same time--difficult to be sure quite so soon--perhaps harmless, might of course be merely severe suppressed jaundice." When the pains began--he hated the idea of operations, and knew that any operation on the liver only at best staved off the dread, inevitable end for a year or a few months--When the pains began, he had grown utterly tired of life; so he compounded a subtle poison--he was a great chemist and had--only his wife knew not of this--a cabinet which contained a variety of mineral, vegetable, and acid poisons; and kept the draught in a secret locker in his bedroom.

Meantime Arbella, who after all was human, was tortured at the sight of his tortures.

She felt she must end it, or her nerves would give way.
She trebled, she quintupled the dose of _aqua distillata_ embittered with quinine.

One night when the night nurse was sleeping ("resting her eyes," she called it) the wretched man stole from his bed to the night nursery and kissed both his boys.