CHAPTER II.
THE MIDNIGHT MISSION Before he said a word more, I knew that Mr.Gilverthwaite was very ill--much worse, I fancied, than my mother had any notion of.

It was evidently hard work for him to get his breath, and the veins in his temples and forehead swelled out, big and black, with the effort of talking.

He motioned to me to hand him a bottle of some stuff which he had sent for from the chemist, and he took a swig of its contents from the bottle neck before he spoke again.

Then he pointed to a chair at the bed-head, close to his pillow.
"My lungs!" he said, a bit more easily.

"Mortal bad! Queer thing, a great man like me, but I was always delicate in that way, ever since I was a nipper--strong as a bull in all else.