"This is Doctor Bayless?" the owner of the intrusive voice queried. Doctor Bayless bowed stiffly. "Bayless, formerly of the R---- street Insane Asylum?" persisted the questioner. The doctor reddened and a startled look crossed his face, but he said, after a moment's silence: "The same." "I want a few words with you, sir." "Excuse me;"--the doctor was growing haughty;--"my time is not my own." "Neither is mine, sir. I am a public benefactor, same as yourself." "Ah, a physician?" "Oh, not at all; a detective." "A detective!" Doctor Bayless did not look reassured. He glanced at the detective, and then up and down the street, his uneasiness evident. "I am a detective; yes, sir," said the stranger cheerily, "and you are in a position to do me a favor without in any way discommoding yourself. Don't be alarmed, sir; its nothing that affects you or touches upon that asylum business. You are safe with me, my word for it, and here's my card. Now, sir, just take my arm and come this way." Doctor Bayless glanced down at the card, and then up at the speaker; and a look of relief crossed his face as he accepted the proffered arm, and walked slowly along at the side of his new acquaintance. CHAPTER XLVII. DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS. Doctor Bayless had predicted aright. Leslie continued to gain slowly, and in the third week of her illness, she could sit erect in her bed for an hour or two each day, listening to Mamma's congratulations, and recalling, one by one, her woes of the past. Not recalling them poignantly, with the sharp pain that would torture her when she should have gained fuller strength, but vaguely, with a haunting pang, as one remembers an unhappy dream. Day by day, as strength came back, her listlessness gave place to painful thought. One day, sitting for the first time in a lounging-chair, procured at second-hand for her comfort, she felt that the time had come to break the silence which, since her first full awakening to consciousness, she had imposed upon herself. Mamma was bustling about the room, inwardly longing to begin the passage-at-arms which she knew must soon ensue, and outwardly seeming solicitous for nothing save the comfort of her "dear girl." As Leslie's eyes followed her about, each seemed suddenly to have formed a like resolve. "How many days have I been ill?" asked Leslie slowly, and languidly resting her head upon her hand. Mamma turned toward her and seemed to meditate. "How many days, my child? Ah, let us see. Why, it's weeks since you came to us--two, yes, three weeks; three weeks and a day." Leslie was silent for a moment. Then she asked: "And you have nursed me through my illness; you alone?" "Surely; who else would there be?" replied Mamma in an injured tone. "Who, indeed!" repeated Leslie bitterly. "Sit down, Madam; I want to talk with you."