These formalities completed, Colonel Barrett takes his departure with the precious document in his safe keeping. Its contents will ring through the world before another sun is down. No sooner has he gone, than Eric Fortescue turns his eyes once more on the duke. “I’m glad he’s gone, sir,” he says slowly, and speaking with difficulty, “because I want to tell you one more thing very particular, sir. It will be my last words, I think, for I feel I’m sinking. It’s about Léonie, sir. I want to tell you who she is, sir. Mr. Trackem told me, sir, long ago. Her mother was Nell Stanley. Of course you know who I mean, sir—the big beauty whom your father, sir, took away from Lord Beauladown. It was she they fought that duel over. Well, Léonie is Nell Stanley’s child, and her father was the late Duke of Ravensdale. He treated her mother very bad, poor thing, and forsook her altogether after she got disfigured with the small-pox. She came to live in Verdegrease Crescent, and earned her living on the streets. But she did not live long, and died at Mr. Trackem’s house when Léonie was three years old. Mr. Trackem was beginning detective business then. Léonie was so pretty and so smart, that he kept her and trained her to the work, and that’s how I came to know her, sir. And I did love her, and it was my love which tempted me to do all the wicked things I did. But God has punished me, sir. I am dying. I shall never see Léonie any more. Still I should be happy if I knew you would care for her, sir.” He says the last words in a whisper. He has used all the strength that he possesses to make this last statement. Poor Eric Fortescue! _It is his last._ Maggie’s footstep is on the stairs; she is coming up so quickly. She has bought some grapes amongst other things with the duke’s gift. “Look, Eric dear!” she exclaims, as she hurries in, and holds up a big bunch of fine black grapes for him to view. “Look what I’ve got you!” But Eric’s eyes are closed, and the hectic flush has given way to a deathly pallor. He has made his last effort on this earth. She sets the things down on the rickety table with a low cry, and comes over to the bedside. “Eric,” she pleads, “look at Maggie, Eric, poor Maggie; she’s brought you such nice things.” He opens his big eyes, the brilliant gleam in them has died out; there is a dead, heavy, vacant look in them. “I’m going, Maggie,” she hears him mutter; “tell Father Vaughan I _did_ tell all. There’s mother, Maggie; how pretty she looks. She’s in a garden full of flowers and fruits and pretty things. The sun is so bright and the air so pure. And there’s Léonie—dear, pretty little Léonie. Don’t hold me, Maggie; I must go to her, I must——” And Maggie, bending over her twin brother, hears his voice grow still, feels on her cheek the last breath of life that goes forth with these words, for Eric Fortescue is dead.