The Best-Laid Plans.  
There were other men besides Mr Tippet who could be true to their promises when it suited them.
 
D. Gorman was true to his, in so far as they concerned David Boone. He visited that unfortunate invalid so frequently, and brought him so many little “nice things” for the alleviation of his sufferings, and exhibited altogether such nervous anxiety about his recovery, that worthy Mrs Craw was quite overwhelmed, and said, in the fulness of her heart, that she never did see a kinder friend, or one who more flatly gave the lie-direct to his looks, which, she was bound to admit, were not prepossessing.
 
But, despite his friend’s solicitude, and his doctor’s prescriptions, and his nurse’s kindness, David Boone continued steadily to sink, until at last the doctor gave it as his opinion that he would not recover.
 
One afternoon, soon after the expression of this opinion, Gorman called on his friend, and was shown as usual into his chamber. It was a wet, cold, stormy afternoon, and the window rattled violently in its frame.
 
Boone was much better that afternoon. It seemed as if he had just waited for the doctor to pronounce his unfavourable opinion in order to have the satisfaction of contradicting it.
 
“He’s better to-day, sir,” said Mrs Craw, in a whisper.
 
“Better!” exclaimed Gorman with a look of surprise, “I’m glad to hear that—very glad.”
 
He looked as if he were very sorry, but then, as Mrs Craw said, his looks belied him.
 
“He’s asleep now, sir; the doctor said if he slept he was on no account to be waked up, so I’ll leave you to sit by him, sir, till he wakes, and, please, be as quiet as you can.”
 
Mrs Craw left the room on tip-toe, and Gorman went to the bedside and looked on the sick man’s wasted features with a frown.
 
“Ha! you’re asleep, are you, and not to be waked up—eh? Come, I’ll rouse you.”
 
He shook him violently by the shoulder, and Boone awoke with a start and a groan.
 
“Hope I didn’t disturb you, Boone,” said his friend in a quiet voice. “I came to inquire for you.”
 
Boone started up in his bed and stared wildly at some object which appeared to be at the foot of the bed. Gorman started too, and turned pale as his eyes followed those of the invalid.
 
“What is it you see, Boone?”
 
“There, there!” he whispered hoarsely, clutching Gorman’s arm as if for protection, “look, I heard his voice just now; oh! save me from that man; he—he—wants to kill me!”
 
“Come, David,” said Gorman soothingly, “it’s only a fancy—there’s nobody there—nobody in the room but me.”
 
“And who are you?” inquired the sick man, falling back exhausted, while he gazed vacantly at his friend.
 
“Don’t you know me, David?”
 
“Never mind, shut your eyes now and try to sleep. It’ll be time to take your physic soon.”
 
“Physic!” cried Boone, starting up in alarm, and again clutching Gorman’s arm. “You won’t let him give it me, will you? Oh! say you won’t—promise to give it me yourself!”
 
Gorman promised, and a very slight but peculiar smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he did so.
 
Boone again sank back on his pillow, and Gorman sat down on a chair beside him. His villainous features worked convulsively, for in his heart he was meditating a terrible deed. That morning he had been visited by Ned Hooper, who in the most drunken of voices told him, “that it wash ’mposh’ble to git a body f’r love or munny, so if ’e wanted one he’d better cut’s own throat.”
 
His plans having miscarried in this matter, Gorman now meditated taking another and more decided step. He looked at the sick man, and, seeing how feeble he was, his fingers twitched as if with a desire to strangle him. So strong was the feeling upon him that he passed his fingers nervously about his own throat, as if to ascertain the formation of it and the precise locality of the windpipe. Then his hand dropped to his side, and he sat still again, while Boone rolled his poor head from side to side and moaned softly.
 
Evening drew on apace, and the shadows in the sick-room gradually became deeper and deeper until nothing could be seen distinctly. Still Gorman sat there, with his features pale as death, and his fingers moving nervously; and still the sick man lay and rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. Once or twice Gorman rose abruptly, but he as often sat down again without doing anything.
 
Suddenly a ray of bright light shot through the window. Gorman started and drew back in alarm. It was only a lamp-lighter who had lighted one of the street-lamps, and the ray which he had thus sent into the sick-chamber passed over the bed. It did not disturb Boone, for the curtains were between him and it, but it disturbed Gorman, for it fell on the chimney-piece and illuminated a group of phials, one of which, half full of a black liquid, was labelled “Poison!”
 
Gorman started up, and this time did not sit down, but with a trembling step moved to the fireplace. He stretched out his hand to grasp the bottle, and almost overturned it, for just at the moment his own figure intercepted the ray of light, and threw the spot where it stood into deep shadow.
 
“What’s that?” asked Boone.
 
“It’s only me,” said Gorman, “getting you your physic. I almost upset it in the dark. Here now, drink it off. I can’t find the cup, but you can take it out of the bottle.”
 
“You won’t let him come near when you give it, will you?” asked Boone anxiously.
 
“No, no; come, open your mouth.”
 
Boone hesitated to do so, but Gorman used a little force. His hands were steady now! His heart was steeled to the deed, and the cry which Boone was about to utter was choked by the liquid flowing down his throat.
 
Gorman had flung him back with such violence that he lay stunned, while the murderer replaced the bottle on the chimney-piece and hurried to the door. A gentle knock at it arrested him, but his indecision was momentary. He opened the door softly, and going out, said to Mrs Craw in a whisper—
 
“He’s sleeping now. I found it hard to get him to give up talking, for he waked up soon after I went in; but he’s all right now. I suppose the medicine is beginning to operate; he told me he took it himself just before I came in.”
 
“Took it himself!” exclaimed Mrs Craw. “Impossible.”
 
“Well, I don’t know, but he’s better now. I would let him rest a while if I were you.”
 
“Stay, sir! I’ll go fetch a light,” said Mrs Craw.
 
“Never mind; I know the stair well,” said Gorman hurriedly; “don’t mind a light; I shan’t want it.”
 
He was right. If any man ever wanted darkness rather than light—thick, heavy, impenetrable darkness—it was D. Gorman at that time.
 
“Took it himself!” repeated Mrs Craw in unabated surprise as she closed the street door. “It’s impossible. He’s got no more strength than an unborn hinfant. I must go an’ see to this.”
 
Lighting a candle............