He raised his feeble arms, till they clasped the beautiful neck as she bent down over him, and her head rested upon his pillow, side by side with his; her soft dark hair half hid his pale cheek, and he was whispering feebly his words of gratitude, as Lydia slowly advanced into the room, and, unnoticed by either, she laid her soft, white hand upon Katrine's shoulder, gripping it with a nervous force of which she herself was ignorant. Katrine started up, flushed, her eyes sparkling with light, and a look of triumph coming into her face, as she saw who was there. "Mr Capel's condition will not permit of this excitement," said Lydia, in a cold, harsh voice. "Doctor Heston's orders were that he should be kept quiet." That afternoon, when Mr Girtle entered the library, he found a plainly-dressed man awaiting him--a man who, save that he gave the idea of having once been a soldier, might have passed for anything, from a publican to an idler whose wife let lodgings, and made it unnecessary for him to toil or spin. "Morning, sir. You had my card, I see. I've called about the attempt made here the other night." "Attempt?" "Yes, sir; the burglary." "How did you know there was an attempt?" "Oh, we get to know a little, sir. We're a body of incompetent men that every one abuses, but we find out a few things a year." "You heard of this, then?" "Yes, sir, and we were a bit surprised that you didn't communicate with us. Seems strange, sir." "Strange, yes, my man, but have we not had horrors enough?" "Yes, sir, but--" "Well," said Mr Girtle impatiently, "you have heard of it, then? What do you wish to do?" "See the place, sir. Who is it that nearly killed that poor fellow?" "How did you know that some one did?" Mr Girtle's visitor laughed a quiet little laugh. "Oh, we know, sir. He's horribly bad." "No; decidedly better." "No, sir. I was at the hospital this morning, and they don't think he'll live the day. He has let it all out." "Look here, my man, we are confusing matters," said Mr Girtle. "Why, you've got a wounded man here?" "Yes. There, my good fellow, I suppose you must know all, now." "I suppose we must, sir," said the officer, with a grim smile. "Strange that you should so soon have another trouble here." "But you have not told me your informant." "Oh, there's no secret about it, sir. Servant chap went to the bad, and lost his character. Old friend of your footman here who was killed. He picks up with a couple of regular cracksmen, and tells all he knows about the house, and they put up the job." "Yes, yes. I see. Well?" "They get in, and catch a Tartar, for this chap was cut down by some one here, and his mates got him away to a wretched hole, where the people were so frightened that they gave information to the police that a man was dying on their premises. Police took him to the hospital, and when he found out how bad he was, he made a clean breast of it all. That's it, sir. Plain as A, B, C."