"He must have meant to murder her, you think, sir?" inquired Mrs. Jessop, smoothing her cap-ribbons, thoughtfully. "I am afraid so. Poor girl! She is quite young?" "Yes, sir." "And most remarkably handsome?" "No doubt, sir." "She is a foreigner, I fancy. It is most unfortunate that there is nothing on her by which we can identify her. By the way--I did not notice--did you see if she wore rings?" "No, sir." "Not a wedding-ring?"--"No, sir." "And not a trinket of any kind about her?" "Not one, sir." "Nothing whatever?" persisted the Doctor musingly, as he held out his hands to the fire. They were cold, for the February night air was keen. "There was this, sir," said Mrs. Jessop, abruptly. She held out to him upon the palm of her plump hand a tiny roll of paper, tied with a wisp of faded red silk. "Where did you find this?" "In a little pocket inside the bosom of her gown, sir--it looked as if it had been made for it." "Have you read it?"--"No, sir. It's gibberish." The Doctor untied and unrolled the little packet, then looked at it by the gaslight. It was covered with characters of a deep red color, curious and fantastic, and to him absolutely meaningless. It looked strange, uncanny, witch-like. Was it a charm? The Doctor studied it wonderingly for a few moments, and then laughed at the thought of such an absurd fancy assailing him! He rolled up and re-tied the little packet. "Well, that won't help us much," he said. "As I thought, we must wait for light from her, poor girl. Take care of it, Mrs. Jessop; she may attach some fanciful value to it." Doctor Brudenell, standing by the bed in the comfortable room, to which the unknown woman had been carried, looked down at her curiously and scrutinizingly. Upon the white pillows he saw a pale face lying--a face that was exquisitely chiseled, the head crowned by a wonderful mass of thick black hair. "Beautiful!" he muttered, under his breath, and turning away. "I should fancy it was jealousy!" The next day's papers contained a sufficiently thrilling account of the attempted murder of a lady in Rockmore Street; but, although an elaborate description of the victim's person and attire was given and enlarged upon with due journalistic skill, it brought no anxious troop of friends and relatives to inquire at Doctor Brudenell's door; and the best efforts of the inspector and his subordinates to track the would-be murderer came to ignominious grief, for the only person who could perchance have put them upon his track lay tossing in the delirium of fever. CHAPTER III. "Hang the brats!" exclaimed Dr. Brudenell, angrily. "If this goes on for long they'll drive me mad, I swear!"