I felt more sorry when I saw him--when the tall, long-faced A.D.C.took me into his room and left us.

Yes, Sir John was certainly going.

There was no mistake about it.

It was written in every line of his drawn fever-worn face, and in his wide fever-lit eyes, and in the clutch of his long yellow hands upon his tussore silk dressing-gown.

He looked a very sick bad old man as he lay there on his low couch, placed so as to court the air from without, cooled by its passage through damped grass screens, and to receive the full strength of the punka, pulled by an invisible hand outside.
"You go to England to-morrow ?" he asked, sharply.
It was written even in the change of his voice, which was harsh, as of old, but with all the strength gone out of it.
"By to-morrow's mail," I said.