“If I can only now open the safe, we may snap our fingers at Mr. Lukin,” thought Heather’s friend, as he closed the books and shut in the record of the borrowed money which had almost overturned Arthur’s reason. Then he sought Mrs. Dudley, who was seated in an arm-chair, resting her head on both hands. And before her on the table lay a little locket, which Mr. Croft recognised as having been taken from the poor broken creature who, still hanging between life and death, was quiet enough upstairs—quiet enough and low enough to have contented his enemy, if he had one. “You are very ill, I fear,” Mr. Croft said, in that almost caressing tone which had won its way to Bessie’s heart in the sunshiny days that seemed now so far—so far away. He had two natures, this man, who had loved the girl so passionately and deceived her so grossly: one tender and compassionate, the other reckless and cynical. “You are very ill, I fear; in the press of other matters you have been neglected. Let me see to you now a little—what is there you can have, likely to do you any good?” “I do not know,” she answered. “I have been upstairs and seen him. Oh! Mr. Croft, what are the chances of his recovery? tell me the truth. It is not likely the doctor would be frank with me.” “I think it greatly depends on his being kept quiet; there is nothing now that ought to distress or worry him. I have discovered the cause of all this misery; it is a very trifling cause indeed which has produced such results.” “Is it?” she lifted her head for a moment as she said this, and looked into Mr. Croft’s face, then her glance wandered towards the locket. He could not quite comprehend her. “A mere trifle,” he repeated; and then he told her all. He thought it best to do this—better that she should understand the whole of the circumstances clearly, so as to be able to comprehend exactly how he intended setting the affair straight. “And I had that money of yours in the house all the time,” Heather said, with that weary, weary look in her face which seemed to Mr. Croft worse than the most violent sorrow—“what you gave me, you know, to keep—for—Bessie!” The last word was spoken more like an exclamation than as though it had belonged in any way to the previous part of the sentence; and Mr. Croft, following the direction of her eyes, beheld the door closed hurriedly, and heard the rustle of a dress in the passage. In a moment he was out in the hall, and had caught the retreating figure. “Bessie!” he cried; “Bessie—Bessie! don’t go! I will leave, if you object to my staying here, but we can both help Mrs. Dudley. See, I will not follow you in!”