The power of observation is at its quickest in moments of intense excitement. I remember looking with the utmost calmness at Sharp's face and figure, as he stood gasping before the door of Herbert Daker's lodging. It was the head of a satyr in anger. "Daker--Herbert Daker!" Sharp cried. The door was suddenly thrown open, and an English clergyman, unruffled and full of dignity, stood in the entrance. Sharp was a bold, untutored man; but he dared not force his way past the priest. "Quiet, gentlemen--be quiet. Step in--but quiet--quiet." We were in the chamber of Matthew Glendore in a moment. A lady rose from the bedside. Humble, and yet stately, a white face with red and swollen eyelids, eyes with command in them. We were uncovered, and in an instant wholly subdued. "My child--my girl!" Reuben Sharp moaned. The clergyman approached him, and laid his hand upon him. "Whom do you want?" "Mrs. Daker--my--" The pale lady, full of grief, advanced a step, and looking full in the face of Reuben Sharp, said, "I, sir, am Mrs. Daker." I had never seen that lady before. "You!" Sharp shouted, shaking with rage. But the minister firmly laid his hand upon him now, saying, "Hush! in the chamber of death! His mother is at his bedside; spare her." At this, a little figure with a ghastly face rose from the farther side of the bed. "Mrs. Rowe!" I cried. She had not the power left to scream; and her head fell heavily upon the pillow of the dying man. "Enough, enough!" the clergyman said with authority--closing the door of the chamber wherein Herbert Daker, the "Mr. Charles" of the Rue Millevoye, lay dead! CHAPTER XIV. THE CASTAWAY.