"It was there I found myself when I came to my senses," Francis continued. "Directly I sat up and tried to think over what had happened I began to feel my head swim. After that everything is blurred and dim in my mind. I fled. The second time, you, Mr. Morton, saved his life from me, as my fingers were closing upon his throat. "They put me in an asylum. Afterwards Mr. Marx passed himself off as my brother and had me moved into a private one. The commissioners came and I appeared before them. I was sane. They let me go. Where is Mr. Marx? Where is Mr. Marx?" There was a deep silence. Then I held out my hand to my father and he clasped it. "Thank God!" I cried, my voice quivering with a great sob--"thank God!" "Amen," my father repeated softly. Again that question, in the same dry, hard tone. "Where is Mr. Marx?" We looked at him--at his nervously twitching hands and burning eyes. The madness was upon him again. We must not let him go. My father drew me on one side. "I shall go to London with you to-night," he said. "What shall we do with this man?" "He must stay here," I answered. "Leave it to me." I went up to him and laid my hand upon his shoulder. "Listen, Francis," I said. "There are two places where Mr. Marx is likely to be this week. One is in London, the other here. Do you understand?" "Yes," he answered; "I understand." "Now, Mr. Ravenor and I know best where to find him in London, but we can't leave unless we know that there is someone on the look-out here as well. If we go to London, will you remain here and watch for him?" The man's eyes sparkled. "Yes," he answered quickly. "This is the room where he writes, isn't it? He will come here. Yes, I will wait; I will watch here in this room." My father rang a bell and ordered a carriage to take us to the station. Then he gave special orders about Francis. He was to be allowed to remain in the library, to use Mr. Ravenor's own sleeping apartment, and to have meals brought to him regularly. An hour later we left the castle for Torchester. As we drove across the courtyard we could see a pale, gaunt figure standing at the library window, silent and rigid. It was Francis, waiting. CHAPTER LIII. MESSRS. HIGGENSON AND CO. At ten o'clock we reached St. Pancras, travelling by fast train from Torchester, and half an hour later a hansom put us down at the Hotel Metropole. Immediately in front of the entrance Count de Cartienne's small brougham was waiting, and as we descended from the cab his servant stepped forward and handed me a note. I tore it open and read it under the gas-lamp. "Come to me at once and you will find Mr. M----. Bring the box with you.--C----." I passed the note on to my father and drew him a little on one side. At the sight of the handwriting he started. "Philip, whose writing is this?" he asked quickly.