“Then you'll--you'll quit your job--you'll be yourself?” “I can not. I must go on.” “And why?” “My friend--his work--his murderer.” “Have you got the man who murdered Henry Wilton?” “No.” “Have you got a man who will give a word against--against--you know who?” “I have not a scrap of evidence against any one but the testimony of my own eyes,” I was compelled to confess. “And you can't use it--you dare not use it. Now I'll tell you, dearie, I know the man as killed Henry Wilton.” “Who was it?” I cried, startled into eagerness. “It was Black Dick--the cursed scoundrel that's done for me. Oh!” she groaned in pain. “Maybe Black Dick struck the blow, but I know the man that stood behind him, and paid him, and protected him, and I'll see him on the gallows before I die.” “Hush,” cried Mother Borton trembling. “If he should hear you! Your throat will be cut yet, dearie, and I'm to blame. Drop it, dearie, drop it. The boy is nothing to you. Leave him go. Take your own name and get away. This is no place for you. When I'm gone there will be no one to warn ye. You'll be killed. You'll be killed.” Then she moaned, but whether from pain of body or mind I could not guess. “Never you fear. I'll take care of myself,” I said cheerily. She looked at me mournfully. “I am killed for ye, dearie.” I started, shocked at this news. “There,” she continued slowly, “I didn't mean to let you know. But they thought I had told ye.” “Then I have two reasons instead of one for holding to my task,” I said solemnly. “I have two friends to avenge.” “You'll make the third yourself,” groaned Mother Borton, “unless they put a knife into Barkhouse, first, and then you'll be the fourth belike.” “Barkhouse--do you know where he is?” “He's in the Den--on Davis Street, you know. I was near forgetting to tell ye. Send your men to get him to-night, for he's hurt and like to die. They may have to fight. No,--don't leave me now.” “I wasn't going to leave you.” Mother Borton put her hand to her throat as though she choked, and was silent for a moment. Then she continued: “I'll be to blame if I don't tell you--I _must_ tell you. Are you listening?” Her voice came thick and strange, and her eyes wandered anxiously about, searching the heavy shadows with a look of growing fear. The candle burned down till it guttered and flickered in its pool of melted tallow, and the shadows it threw upon wall and ceiling seemed instinct with an impish life of their own, as though they were dark spirits from the pit come to mock the final hours of the life that was ebbing away before me. “I am listening,” I replied. “You must know--you must--know,--I must tell you. The boy--the woman is--” On a sudden Mother Borton sat bolt upright in bed, and a shriek, so long, so shrill, so freighted with terror, came from her lips that I shrank from her and trembled, faint with the horror of the place.