Startled by her surprise into new life, she gave one glance at the gentleman who had followed her to the door. It was the same who had offered her his arm, and whom she supposed to have remained behind her in Mr. Orcutt's room. She saw before her a large comfortable-looking personage of middle age, of no great pretensions to elegance or culture, but bearing that within his face which oddly enough baffled her understanding while it encouraged her trust. This was the more peculiar in that he was not looking at her, but stood with his eyes fixed on the fading light of the hall-lamp, which he surveyed with an expression of concern that almost amounted to pity. "Sir, who are you?" she tremblingly asked. Dropping his eyes from the lamp, he riveted them upon the veil she held tightly clasped in her right hand. "If you will allow me the liberty of whispering in your ear, I will soon tell you," said he. She bent her weary head downward; he at once leaned toward her and murmured a half-dozen words that made her instantly start erect with new light in her eyes. "And you will help me?" she cried. "What else am I here for?" he answered. And turning toward a quiet figure which she now saw for the first time standing on the threshold of a small room near by, he said with the calmness of a master: "Hickory, see that no one enters or leaves the sick-room till I return." And offering Imogene his arm, he conducted her into the library, the door of which he shut to behind them. CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. GRYCE. What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest. --MACBETH. AN hour later, as Mr. Ferris was leaving the house in company with Dr. Tredwell, he felt himself stopped by a slight touch on his arm. Turning about he saw Hickory. "Beg pardon, sirs," said the detective, with a short bow, "but there's a gentleman, in the library who would like to see you before you go." They at once turned to the room indicated. But at sight of its well-known features--its huge cases of books, its large centre-table profusely littered with papers, the burnt-out grate, the empty arm-chair--they paused, and it was with difficulty they could recover themselves sufficiently to enter. When they did, their first glance was toward the gentleman they saw standing in a distant window, apparently perusing a book. "Who is it?" inquired Mr. Ferris of his companion. "I cannot imagine," returned the other. Hearing voices, the gentleman advanced. "Ah," said he, "allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Gryce, of the New York Detective Service." "Mr. Gryce!" repeated the District Attorney, in astonishment.