“Little woman,” said Rowton. “Come close to me, Nance,” he continued in an almost inaudible whisper; “hold my hand tighter—I cannot feel your clasp.” She put both her hands round it, fondling it close to her breast. “Are we alone, Nancy?” “Yes, darling, quite alone.” “That is—good. I have much to say to you.” “Darling, don’t talk if it gives you pain. I can guess your thoughts, I know you so well.” “Heavens! She knows me so well,” repeated the dying man. “Has a doctor been sent for, Adrian?” “No use.” “But I thought you were strong, in good health. What is the meaning of this agony?” “Heart,” he said in a whisper. “I have—known—it long—disease of long standing—hopeless; never mind—no doctor can cure me. Listen—Nancy mine.” She bent down until her white face was almost on a level with his. “Speak, dearest, beloved,” she said in her softest voice. “Your very lowest word will be heard by me. Everything you tell me I will do. I am all yours, remember, both in life and death.” “There never was—such an angel,” he replied, and a faint, half-mocking, yet utterly sweet smile flitted across his face. “Nancy, my strength is going. See you get the boy.” “Yes.” “Listen, Nance. Simpkins knows where he is—so does—Scrivener. So, I fancy, does Sophy—the girl in this house. If—Simpkins and Scrivener fail you—turn to—Sophy. She was always fond of me—poor Sophy! If she—helps you—take her away with you afterwards—for in doing—what you want, she may bring her own—life—into danger. Go away yourself, too. Little woman—you’ll hear terrible things.” “I don’t care,” she replied. “What are terrible tidings to me if I don’t believe them?” Rowton smiled into her eyes. “I would—I might always remain thy white knight,” he said. “Black to everyone else—but white to thee. There!—it is too much to hope.” He panted, his breath failed him. Nance held some brandy to his lips. He presently closed his eyes. She sat down on the floor by his side, and slipped her arm under his neck, so that his head rested on her breast. He felt the warm beating of the loving heart and opened his eyes. “Are you there?” he said. “I can’t see; are you there?” “Yes,” she replied. “Do you think I could leave you?” “Never,” he replied. “My angel who believed in the angel in me. Nancy, I am the blackest scoundrel—on earth.” “No, no,” she then said with a sob. “Don’t revile yourself now. To one person you have always been white.” “As an angel, Nancy mine?” “As an angel,” she replied. “You have been the one hero of my life—immaculate, strong, as you said yourself, my white knight.” The dying man moved restlessly. “Child,” he said, “you will hear things.” His voice grew lower and lower. “I have brought thee into the lowest scrape—into the depths. You will know hereafter what I have done for thee, Little Nancy.” “I don’t wish to know; I will not listen. Whatever I hear, nothing will turn my love,” she replied. “Is that indeed so? Say—those words again.”