There was an angry silence and both men paced faster along the moonlit road.

The farm stood well back, a hundred yards from the main highway to Lichfield. The path to it was a gloomy avenue of tall elms and by the time they were halfway along it they could see a tall figure standing in the doorway and peering out toward them. As they came closer he leaned back inside to pick up a lantern and strode to meet them.

“Dr. Darwin, I fear you are none too soon.” The speaker’s voice was full and resonant, like that of a singer or a practiced clergyman, but there was no warmth or welcome in it.

Darwin nodded. “Colonel Pole tells me that the situation looks grave. I have my medical chest with me back at Matthew Boulton’s house. If there are drugs or dressings needed, Dr. Monkton, they can be brought here in a few minutes.”

“I think it may already be too late for that.” They had reached the door, and Monkton paused there. He was broad shouldered, with a long neck and a red, bony face. His expression was dignified and severe. “By the time Colonel Pole left here, the man was already sunk to unconsciousness. Earlier this evening there was delirium, and utterances that were peculiar indeed. I have no great hopes for him.”

“He is one of Bailey’s farmworkers?”

“He is not. He is a stranger, taken ill on the road near here. The woman with him came for help to the farm. Fortunately I was already here, attending to Father Bailey’s rheumatics.” He shrugged. “That is a hopeless case, of course, in a man of his age.”

“Mm. Perhaps.” Darwin sounded unconvinced, but he did not press it. “It was curiously opportune that you were here. So tell me, Dr. Monkton, just what is this stranger’s condition?”