The girl turned to her with a radiant smile; my conviction is that that smile won Mrs. Peddar’s heart right off. “Oh, Mrs. Peddar, I am so sleepy. I feel as if I wanted to sleep, sleep, sleep. I can’t think what’s the matter.” Mrs. Peddar was regarding her with inquisitive looks, in which, however, there was sympathy as well. “You’re tired, miss; that’s what the matter is with you. A good night’s rest will do you good; you shall have it if you’ll come with me, and as comfortable a bed as you ever slept in.” “You’ll be all right with Mrs. Peddar,” I said; for the girl seemed to hesitate. “You could not be in safer keeping, or in kinder hands.” “Cannot I stay here?” I looked at Mrs. Peddar; Mrs. Peddar looked at me. It was she who answered. “I think, miss, you will be more comfortable if you come with me. You see, Mr. Ferguson lives alone.” “But where shall you be?” The anxious tone in which the girl put the question, and the appealing gesture with which it was accompanied, afforded me an unreasonable amount of pleasure. “I shall be here, not so very far away from you; and, the first thing in the morning, I will come to learn how you have slept.” “You promise?” “I promise.” Never did I promise anything more willingly. She was still reluctant to go. To appease her I accompanied her upstairs. When she reached Mrs. Peddar’s own apartment she was still unwilling to suffer me to leave her, her unwillingness making me absurdly happy. As I descended those interminable stairs it was as if I trod on air. It was ridiculous. Why should I be affected, one way or the other, by the whims, and airs, and fancies of an apparently half-witted woman, who had forced her way into my room at dead of night in a cloak all wet with blood. CHAPTER IV. DR. HUME I was awoke next morning by Atkins bringing in my cup of coffee. He asked me a question as he arranged it on the small table beside my bed. “Do you know, sir, if Mr. Lawrence slept in his rooms last night?” He had aroused me from a dreamless slumber, and I was not yet sufficiently awake to catch the full drift of his inquiry. “Slept in his rooms? What do you mean?” “Because, sir, when I took him his coffee just now, as usual, I knocked four times and got no answer. And his door’s locked; it’s not his habit to lock his door when he’s at home.” Atkins is one of the staff of servants attached to the Mansions, whose particular office it is to wait on the occupants of chambers on the first floor: a discreet man, who has a pretty intimate knowledge of the manners and customs of those on whom he attends. “Mr. Lawrence was in his rooms last night. I was with him till rather late, and I believe he had a visitor after I had left.” This I said remembering what Turner had told me about his brother coming down the stairs, with the parcel in his arms. “I think he must be out now--at least, I can’t make him hear. And the door’s locked; I never knew him have the door locked when he was in.”