He wrenched his thoughts away from the facts which seemed to condemn the woman he so deeply loved, and by a great effort of will dismissed a fancy which seemed the most cruel treason against love. ‘Does the evil one inspire our dreams sometimes?’ he wondered. ‘So vile a thought could never have entered my head if a voice had not whispered the hateful suggestion into my sleeping ear. But there shall be an end at once of suspicion and of mystery. I will no longer treat Lucille as a child. I frightened her more by my hints and suggestions than I could have done had I told her the plain facts. I will trust to her firmness and fortitude, and tell her all without reserve—the discovery of the attempted poisoning, the robbery, the secret entrance of the man I watched the night before last. I will trust her most fully.’ This resolve gave extreme relief to his mind. He dressed hurriedly, took a brief breakfast of his own preparation, Mrs. Babb the charwoman not yet having left her domestic circle to minister to his wants, and at half-past eight o’clock found himself once more outside the iron gate which shut in the chief object of his love. Mrs. Wincher admitted him with a solemn and mournful visage. ‘Is there anything amiss?’ asked Lucius anxiously. ‘I don’t believe there’ll ever be anything more in this blessed house that isn’t amiss,’ answered Mrs. Wincher obscurely, but with a despondent air that augered ill. ‘Mr. Sivewright is worse, I suppose,’ said Lucius. ‘Mr. Sivewright is much as usual, grumble, grumble—this here don’t agree with him, and that there turns sour on his stomach, and so on—enough to worrit folks into early graves. But there’s a deal more the matter than that this morning.’ ‘For Heaven’s sake, speak plainly,’ cried Lucius impatiently. ‘Our missy is in a burning fever. She was heavy and lollopy-like all yesterday afternoon, and her cheeks, that have been as white as a chaney tea-plate latterly, was red and hot-looking, and she slept heavy and breathed short in her sleep, for I stood and watched her; and she moved about in a languid way that wasn’t a bit like her quick light ways when she’s well. But I thought it was nothink more than what you says yourself yesterday morning—want of rest. I should ’ave thought you might ’ave knowed she was sickening for a fever,’ added Mrs. Wincher reproachfully. ‘Misfortune does not always declare itself so plainly. I could see that she was ill, and that was all. God grant the fever may not be very much, after all!’ ‘Not very much!’ exclaimed Mrs. Wincher. ‘Why, when I took her a hearly cup of tea at half-past seven this morning, which was as soon as I could get my kittle boiled, she was raving like a lunatic—going on about her father, and such-like—in a dreadful way, and didn’t recognise me no more nor if I’d been a stranger out of the street.’