"I didn't bring you a letter from Dr. Dale. 'Twas from Pitt; Dr. Dale's head man. You read it yourself. When I found that Frank was getting unmanageable at the lodgings, I sent to Pitt, asking if he'd be good enough to come and see to him--I knew no other doctor up there; and Pitt was the best I could have, as he understood his case. Pitt came and took the charge; and I left Frank under him. I couldn't afford to stay up there, with my grass waiting to be cut, and all the fine weather wasting itself away. Pitt stayed with him; and he died in Pitt's arms; and it was Pitt that wrote the letter to tell me of it. You should ha' gone up with me, Squire," added Stephen, with a kind of sneer, "and then you'd have seen where he was for yourself, and known as much as I did." "It was an infamous deceit to put upon me, Stephen Radcliffe." "It did no harm. The deceit only lay in letting you think he died in the mad-house instead of out of it. If I'd not thought he was well enough to come out, I shouldn't have moved him. 'Twas his fault," sullenly added Stephen. "He prayed me to take him away from the place; not to go away without him." "And where was it that he did die?" "At my lodgings." "What lodgings?" "The lodgings I stayed at while I was shipping off the things to Tom. I took Frank there, intending to bring him down home with me when I came, and surprise you all. Before I could come he was drinking, and as mad again as a March hare. Pitt had to strap him down to his bed." "Are you sure you did not ship him off to Tom also, while you were shipping the things?" demanded the Squire. "I believe you are crafty enough for it, Stephen Radcliffe--and unbrotherly enough." "If I'd shipped him off, he could have shipped himself back again, I take it," returned Stephen, coolly. "Where are these lodgings that he died at?" "In London." "Whereabouts in London? I didn't suppose they were in New York." "'Twas near Cow Cross." "Cow Cross! Where in the name of wonder is Cow Cross?" "Up towards Smithfield. Islington way." "You give me the address, Stephen Radcliffe. I insist upon knowing it. Johnny, you can see--take it down. If I don't verify this matter to my satisfaction, Mr. Radcliffe, I'll have you up publicly to answer for it." Stephen took an old pocket-book out of his coat, went to the window to catch what little light came in, and ran his finger down the leaves. "Gibraltar Terrace, Islington district," read he. "That was all the address I ever knew it by." "Gibraltar Terrace, Islington district," repeated the pater. "Take it down, Johnny--here's the back of an old letter. And now, Mr. Radcliffe, will you go with me to London?" "No. I'll be hanged if I do." "I mean to come to the bottom of this, I can tell you. You shan't play these tricks on honest people with impunity." "Why, what do you suspect?" roared Stephen. "Do you think I murdered him?"