"You say that you have something to communicate to me which bears upon the murder in Great Porter Square. It is, of course, of the greatest importance to me that I should be cleared of the suspicion which must still attach to me; the police have sharp eyes, and although I gave a false name--as true however, as the charge brought against me--it is quite possible that some person who was in the Police Court might recognise me, and cause me fresh trouble. Therefore I shall scarcely ever feel myself safe in the London streets until the murderer is discovered and punished. But above even this in importance I place the strange disappearance of my father. To find him is my first and paramount desire. "The picture you have drawn of Mrs. Bailey, the bedridden old lodger, and her deaf and nearly blind old sister, with the languid linnet, and the moping bullfinch, is most amusing. I shall not be at all surprised if, in your next letter, you inform me that the old lady's mattress is stuffed with bank notes. "How highly I value your true womanly attempts to cheer and comfort me! To read your letters is almost to hear you speak, you write so feelingly and earnestly. My fullest love is yours, and yours only. What a loving grateful heart, what willing hands can do, to make you happy when the clouds have cleared, shall be done by me. Rely upon me; have faith in me; and believe me to be, "Your faithful lover, "FRED." Becky read the letter slowly, with smiles and tears; then kissed it repeatedly, and placed it in the bosom of her dress. Before turning her attention to the newspaper she had bought in the afternoon, she ran upstairs to Mrs. Bailey. The old woman was awake, staring at her birds. She asked Becky to rub her side with the liniment, and the girl--to whose heart Fred's affectionate letter had imparted fresh happiness--did so in a blithe and cheerful manner. "You're better than a doctor, Becky," said the old woman, "a thousand times better. I was as young and merry as you once--I was indeed. Pretty--too--eh, Becky?" "That's to be seen," said Becky, rubbing away. "You have the remains now." "Have I, Becky, have I--eh?" "Indeed you have--you're a good-looking old lady." A gleam of vanity and delight lit up the old creature's eyes for a moment. "Am I, Becky--eh? You're a good girl--listen; I shall leave you something in my will. I'm going to make one--by and bye, but I don't want any lawyers. You shall do it for me. I can trust you, eh, Becky?" "Indeed you can," replied Becky, tucking the old woman in; "you feel more comfortable now, don't you?" "Yes, your soft hands rub the pain away. But it comes again, Becky, it comes again." "So will I, to rub it away again. I must go down now, I have so much to do." She patted the old woman's shoulder, and reached the door, when she stopped and asked, in a careless tone,