“I go, sir,” replied the woman; then, once more bending over the bed, she murmured, “Lucy, Lucy, while there is yet time, turn to the Lord; do not forget what He has said to all who go to Him in tears and penitence.” Then Frank took her by the arm, and led her out of the room, reminding her that there still might be a chance of saving her friend’s life. Left thus unexpectedly alone with the girl, Frank determined to make one more effort to get at the truth. How ill she was, he scarcely knew, but getting more accustomed to the dim light of the room, he could see that her face was crimson with fever, and her eyes wild and staring. He approached the bed quietly, and bending over her, said in a low tone— “Lucy Williams, do you know me? I have come a long way to ask you a question, will you try to answer it?” The girl started up in bed with a loud cry. “Tom, Tom!” she exclaimed, evidently mistaking Varley for her brother; “Why do you stay here? I thought you were at Liverpool; you will never, never get off!” Then she sank back on her pillows, and recommenced breathing heavily. Frank waited a few minutes and thought he would try once more. This time he began differently. “Lucy,” he said, in a kind, soothing tone, “I have no doubt your brother is safe somewhere by this time, it is about your young mistress I wish to speak, your dear Miss Amy. Can you tell me where she is or do you know what led her to leave her home?” But now the girl’s terror redoubled; she clasped her hands and hid her face in the pillows. “Do not take me away, sir,” she implored, “let me die here in peace! I did it for Tom—he knows, he will tell you—only leave me here till the morning?” Then her mutterings became incoherent, and she tossed wildly from side to side. It was evidently useless; nothing more could then be attempted, and Varley drew away from the bed and leant against the window ledge. Had he been of an imaginative temperament, the scene in which he was playing a part would have excited his nerves horribly. Not a sound in the house save the tick, tick, of a large Dutch clock fixed in a corner near the window. Now and then a feeble flame would spring up in the half-filled grate and cast a gaunt shadow across the ceiling. A badly silvered oval mirror hung over the mantle-piece and seemed to reflect all sorts of weird shapes; and every now and then, from the poor worn out bed in the darkest corner of the room, came a sob or moan, or the girl’s half-muttered delirous fancies. “I shall be glad when this is over,” said Frank to himself. “How long that woman is. The girl may be dead before morning and we none the wiser for what she knows!” He tried to catch a sentence here and there of her wanderings, but it told him nothing beyond the fact that her brother was somehow mixed up in the affair, and her one anxiety was for his safety.