"She has a right to be here," answered the lawyer, as he rang the bell at the door of the sponging-house; "you will soon know all." Miss Kingscott gazed searchingly at the stranger, and gave a start of half-amazement, half-terror; but the lawyer did not give her time to say anything. He asked for Markworth on the door being opened, and the Cerberus told him that he was upstairs in the private room, where he had given orders not to be disturbed. Mr Trump said he was his lawyer. Cerberus knew his vocation very well, for Mr Trump had paid many visits to clients in Abednego's retirement before--and he was admitted after a little parley at the door, facilitated by the application of palm oil. "He's upstairs on the second floor, the door right fronting you," shouted the man, after them. "You'll be sure to find him at home," he added, with a chuckle at his own joke. The lawyer led the way up the dirty staircase, followed by Miss Kingscott: while the Doctor and the strange lady were close behind. Arrived at the door of the room in which Markworth was, Mr Trump knocked in vain for some time. He at length turned, the handle, and the four visitors walked in unbidden. Markworth was in the corner of the room: they could all see him. The lawyer called out to him, but got no answer: he went up to him. The man was dead! Markworth was sitting in the same place where the governess had left him in his misery. His bowed head lay between his clasped hands: the sun had gone down now, and no longer shone upon him with its golden gleams: his sun also had sunk to rest! The Doctor went forward and examined him. He had been dead more than an hour he said: cause--heart disease, probably brought on by strong excitement, or a sudden shock. All were startled at this unexpected appearance of pale death; even his enemy and Nemesis relented as she gazed on the lifeless mask of him whom she had so ruthlessly pursued, and drew back in horror at what she had done. But the stranger darted forward, and threw herself with a burst of grief on the motionless form of the dead man: sorrow and sympathy, friendship or hate, could no longer affect him now! As she did so, the stranger threw aside her veil: and the face of the mourner was the face of Susan Hartshorne, whom the dead man had been accused of having murdered. "Poor thing! poor thing!" murmured the doctor, as he turned away his head and walked towards the window to conceal his emotion. "Bless my soul! It's a sad pity--a sad pity! But it is better as it is." Volume 3, Chapter XIII. RETROSPECTIVE AND PROGRESSIONAL. In order to explain Susan's reappearance under these exceptional circumstances, it will be necessary that we should retrace our steps and return to a date some months back in our narrative.