“I swear on the Bible, madam, that I am not. Mr. Rowton has sent for his wife. He is very ill. If you refuse to let Mrs. Rowton come with me I must go away without her.” “In that case, I have no alternative,” said Lady Georgina; “I only trust I am not doing wrong.” Nance and Scrivener left the room. A hansom was in waiting outside the hotel. Nance entered and Scrivener immediately followed her. He gave directions in a low voice to the driver, and the cab started forward at a quick pace. Presently Scrivener put his hand through the little window in the roof. “A sovereign,” he called to the driver, “if you get us to our destination in a quarter of an hour from now.” The man whipped up his horse. “You said that my husband was very ill; is he in danger?” asked Nance. “He is, madam, in extreme danger.” Nance did not ask another question. She locked her hands tightly under her cloak. Her face was deathlike. She looked like one carved in stone. By-and-by the cab entered a squalid street leading off the Embankment. It turned to the left, then to the right, then to the left again, and finally drew up at a shabby-looking door. Scrivener jumped out. “This way, Mrs. Rowton,” he said. He flung the sovereign to the driver, and then knocked in a peculiar way on the door. It was opened immediately by a shabbily-dressed girl, whose eyes were red from violent weeping. “All right upstairs, Sophy?” asked Scrivener. “Silver is still alive,” answered Sophy with a catch in her voice. “Silver,” repeated Nance to herself in a low tone. It was at this awful moment of her life that a memory came back to her. She had forgotten it until now. Earlier in that same evening Crossley had told her that her husband, her brave husband, whom he presently accused of the most ghastly crime, was also known as Silver, the leader of a school or mob of burglars, called the Silver School. The information seemed to her so baseless and false, and was also so completely swallowed up in the grave and monstrous accusation which followed it, that until now it was completely blotted out of her memory. “Silver,” she said, looking with dilated eyes at Scrivener as they mounted the stairs. “Who is Silver?” “Never mind about Silver now, madam; I am taking you to see your husband, Mr. Rowton, of Rowton Heights.” Nance asked no more questions. The next moment they found themselves inside the club room. The greater part of the long room was in complete darkness, but at the farther end a paraffin lamp flared. Nance saw dimly as she entered the figure of a man lying on the floor. When he heard her step Rowton raised himself with an effort. [Illustration: “When he heard her step Rowton raised himself with an effort.”—_Page 305._] “My wife has come,” he said to Simpkins. “Leave us. Go into another room.” CHAPTER XXXVI. THE DARKNESS BEFORE THE DAWN. Nance fell on her knees by the dying man. She took one of his cold hands in hers.