“No, miss--if I could help it. Look here!” She drew her shawl aside, and revealed the face of a little child sleeping peacefully in her arms. “If it hadn’t have been for him she’d have been underground by this time! He saved her life; yes, he did! He spoke to me as nobody ever spoke before, and I can’t--I can’t--let him come to harm!” “Go on! go on!” implored Bessie. The woman drew closer to her. “I know who did the murder, miss!” she whispered, huskily. Bessie caught her arm. “Tell me! tell me!” she panted. The woman trembled under the grasp. “Promise me, swear to me, miss, that you won’t tell who told you--that you won’t give my name up.” “I promise,” said Bessie, solemnly; “whatever happens, you shall come to no hurt. I promise for him, as well as for myself.” “Ah, no; he wouldn’t see me hurt!” said Liz Lee. “Well, then----” She stopped suddenly and uttered a cry. A carriage had dashed up to the station at a tremendous rate; the whistle of the up-train was heard in the distance. “Quick! quick!” exclaimed Bessie. But the woman seemed to have lost all power of speech, and was staring at the carriage from which a gentleman had alighted. Bessie looked over her shoulder. It was Mr. Bartley Bradstone. “You know him!” she said, instantly. “Does he know anything of the murder; does he----” The woman shuddered as she watched him go up the stairs. “No, it’s a fate!” she gasped. “Oh, I’m afraid to tell, afraid, afraid!” and she seemed unable to remove her eyes from his receding figure. Bessie almost shook her in her agony of suspense. “You must!” she said. “You have gone too far.” “If I must!” panted the woman. “Yes, he does know. Don’t let him go! Do you hear? Stop him! Follow him----” In her uncertainty and excitement, Bessie took half-a-dozen steps toward the station platform. Then she turned, and, with a start, found a man standing between her and the woman, who was cowering against the wall, as if she had just received a blow. “What, you, Liz!” he said, addressing the woman, but keeping his eyes on Bessie. “You’re drunk again, are yer? What plant have you been a-puttin’ on this young lady? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What’s she been a-sayin’, miss?” And he turned to Bessie with a half-threatening, half-whining air. “Something about this yer murder, wasn’t it? Blessed if this yer murder haven’t gone and turned my missis’ head. Don’t pay any attention to her, miss! I ’umbly begs pardon for her. She ought to know better than to stop a lady with her rubbidge!” and, seizing the woman’s arm, he hurried her to the steps. “Stop!” said Bessie, “stop! She is not drunk, and you know it! She shall speak!” The man glanced hurriedly up at the platform, at which the up-train was just arriving, and, tightening his hold on the woman’s arm, swung her round. She was crying covertly.