Leslie puts back the thought with a passionate moan. She must not think now. Mamma has sworn to produce the child within the hour that sees Leslie the wife of Franz. And Leslie has vowed, when the child's hand is in hers, to sign a paper which Mamma shall place before her--anything; she cares not what. She has agreed to all this, suffered her martyrdom, sustained by the promise: "At the right time I shall be at hand. I will not fail you." And the last moments are passing. She can hear Papa shuffling about the outer room, and she knows that Franz has gone to bring the Priest. The right time is very near; but Stanhope-- She has not seen Mamma since morning. She has not heard her rasping voice, nor her heavy step in the outer room. But the minutes are going fast; Franz will be back soon. And Stanhope--O, God, _where_ is Stanhope? Again she bows her head upon her arms and utters a low moan. "Oh, if he should fail me! If he _should_ fail me!" In the outer room, Papa's restlessness increases. He vibrates constantly now between the window and the door. The curtain is drawn up to the low ceiling; the entire window is bare and stares out upon the street like a watchful eye. And now Papa turns suddenly from the door, closes it, and hastens to the window; looks out once again to reassure himself, and then, rising on tiptoe, draws down the dark curtain. He measures the window with a glance, lowering the curtain slowly and stopping it half way down. It is a signal, prearranged by Mamma, and it tells that approaching personage that the way is clear, that Franz is absent. [Illustration: "Again she bows her head upon her arms and utters a low moan."--page 398.] Another moment of waiting and he hears shuffling footsteps, and the sound of receding wheels. Then he opens the door, opens it wide this time, and admits Mamma. Mamma, and something else. This something she carries in her arms. It is carefully wrapped in a huge shawl, and is quite silent and moveless. "You are sure it's all right?" whispers Papa nervously, as in obedience to a movement of Mamma's head he opens the closet-door. Mamma lays down her still burden, covers it carefully with the ragged blanket, closes the door of the closet, and then turns to face Papa. "Yes," she says, in a hoarse whisper; "my part of the business is right enough. Ye needn't be uneasy about that. I told ye I wouldn't bring her into the house while Franz was here; and as for my being followed, I ain't afraid; I've doubled on my track too often. If any one started to follow me, they're watching the wrong door this minute. How long has Franz been away?" "Not half an hour." "How's _she_ been behaving?" "Quiet; very quiet." Mamma seats herself, removes her hideous bonnet, and draws a heavy breath. "Well, I've done my part," she says grimly. "Now, let Franzy do his'n." She goes to a shelf, takes therefrom a bottle of ink and a rusty pen.