We left Dr. Sinclair in the chamber of Josephine, at Franklin House, reposing after the exciting and disagreeable adventures of the preceding night. He awoke at noon, somewhat refreshed, and entered a bath while Josephine sent a servant to purchase a suit of clothes, as those which he had worn were so soiled and torn as to be unfit for further service. Reclining luxuriously in the perfumed water of the marble bath, the Doctor experienced a feeling of repose and comfort. He had long learned to disregard the 'still, small voice' of his own conscience; and, provided he could reach his home and answer all inquiries without incurring suspicion--provided, also, his having been incarcerated in the watch-house should not be exposed--he was perfectly contented. His clothes being brought him, he dressed himself, and joining Josephine in the parlor, partook of a refreshing repast; then, bidding farewell to his 'lady-love,' he took his departure, and proceeded to his own residence. In answer to the earnest inquiries of the members of his household, he stated that he had passed the night with a friend in Brooklyn; and entering his study, he applied himself to the task of writing his next Sunday's sermon. CHAPTER XVII _Illustrating the truth of the proverb that 'Murder will out,' and containing an Appalling Discovery._ Two or three days after the above events, Dr. Sinclair was sent for by a woman lying at the point of death. He found her occupying the garret of an old, crazy tenement in Orange street; she was stretched upon a miserable bed, covered only by a few rags, and her short breathings, sunken cheeks, and lustreless eyes, proclaimed that the hand of death was upon her. Though young in years, her appearance indicated that she had passed through much suffering, destitution and sin. 'Are you the clergyman?' she asked in a faint voice. 'I am; what can I do for you, my good woman?' said the Doctor, seating himself on a rickety stool at the bedside. 'Oh, sir,' cried the invalid, evidently in great mental distress, 'I want you to pray for me. Do you think there is any hope for such a sinner as I have been? I am dying, and my soul is lost--forever!' In his own heart, the rector felt his unfitness to administer comfort in such a case, considering his own wickedness; yet he strove to quiet the uneasiness of the poor creature, by assuring her that there was hope for the 'chief of sinners.' At her request he prayed with her; and then she addressed him as follows:-- 'There is something on my mind which I must make confession of, or I shall not die easy--something that will make you shrink from me, as from a guilty wretch, who deserves no mercy. I am a _murderess_!' 'A murderess!' echoed the Doctor, starting back with horror; after a few moments' pause, he added--'proceed with your confession.' 'I will, sir. Four years ago, I entered the service of Mrs. Lucretia Franklin, in Washington Place.'