Following the direction of his finger, I sat down in a chair at the head of the bed; he took his station at the side of it in a large arm-chair he saw there. As he did so I saw how fatherly and kind he really looked, and wondered if he was in the habit of so preparing himself to meet the eye of all the suspected criminals he encountered. The thought made me glance again her way. She lay like a statue, and her face, naturally round but now thinned out and hollow, looked up from the pillow in pitiful quiet, the long lashes accentuating the dark places under her eyes. A sad face, the saddest I ever saw and one of the most haunting. He seemed to find it so also, for his expression of benevolent interest deepened with every passing moment, till suddenly she stirred; then he gave me a warning glance, and stooping, took her by the wrist and pulled out his watch. She was deceived by the action. Opening her eyes, she surveyed him languidly for a moment, then heaving a great sigh, turned aside her head. "Don't tell me I am better, doctor. I do not want to live." The plaintive tone, the refined accent, seemed to astonish him. Laying down her hand, he answered gently: "I do not like to hear that from such young lips, but it assures me that I was correct in my first surmise, that it is not medicine you need but a friend. And I can be that friend if you will but allow me." Moved, encouraged for the instant, she turned her head from side to side, probably to see if they were alone, and not observing me, answered softly: "You are very good, very thoughtful, doctor, but"--and here her despair returned again--"it is useless; you can do nothing for me." "You think so," remonstrated the old detective, "but you do not know me, child. Let me show you that I can be of benefit to you." And he drew from his pocket a little package which he opened before her astonished eyes. "Yesterday, in your delirium, you left these rings in an office down-town. As they are valuable, I have brought them back to you. Wasn't I right, my child?" "No! no!" She started up, and her accents betrayed terror and anguish, "I do not want them; I cannot bear to see them; they do not belong to _me_; they belong to _them_." "To _them_? Whom do you mean by them?" queried Mr. Gryce, insinuatingly. "The--the Van Burnams. Is not that the name? Oh, do not make me talk; I am so weak! Only take the rings back." "I will, child, I will." Mr. Gryce's voice was more than fatherly now, it was tender, really and sincerely tender. "I will take them back; but to which of the brothers shall I return them? To"--he hesitated softly--"to Franklin or to Howard?" I expected to hear her respond, his manner was so gentle and apparently sincere. But though feverish and on the verge of wildness, she had still some command over herself, and after giving him a look, the intensity of which called out a corresponding expression on his face, she faltered out: