'It's all right,' said the other. 'You didn't lock the door after you, old man, when you went out, and this lady found her way in--at least, God showed her the way in. If she hadn't come at the right moment it would have gone hard with our friend here. I am glad you have brought your sister. And now,' he said, turning to Lucy, 'we need not detain you any longer. This lady will stay with us, I hope, till late; and I shall sit up with him to-night. To-morrow, I hope, the worst will be over.' 'I hope so,' Lucy said with a sob she couldn't choke down--she hadn't the heart to say any more. 'I am sure you will respect our secret,' the man said, as Lucy was drawing on her gloves. She didn't answer him; she only looked at him, and she saw the blood flush up under his skin. She remembered somebody else's cheeks she had seen flush in the same way--not a man's. 'I beg your pardon,' he said humbly. Lucy was so angry with him for doubting her that she did not see his proffered hand; she drew her gloves on hurriedly, and picked up her books and went out into the passage, but she beckoned the nurse to follow her. 'I don't think the man's going to get better,' she said in a hurried whisper. 'It's like consenting to a murder to let him lie there and die; but _I_ am not going to tell. I think his mother ought to know. I think someone ought to write and tell her that he is ill--dying!' The nurse shook her head. 'It would kill her!' she said. 'She has such faith in her son--her beautiful son! He is such a noble, splendid fellow! Oh, it is a dreadful pity!' 'Why did he do it?' 'Why? Oh, don't you know?' 'No----' The door of the room opened as they were speaking, and the nurse's brother beckoned her to come in. 'Come to me to-morrow morning at Addenbroke's,' she said. 'Ask for Nurse Brannan;' and then she went into the room and shut the door. Lucy crept guiltily down the stairs. She quite shivered as she passed the Tutor's door: she would not have encountered him for the world. She didn't feel safe until she had got outside the college gate, and then she ran all the way back to Newnham. CHAPTER VII. LUCY'S SECRET. Lucy felt dreadfully guilty all through that wretched evening. If she had assisted in a murder she couldn't have felt worse. She had no appetite for dinner, and when she went back to her room, what was still more unusual, she had no appetite for her work. A Newnham girl is a gourmand where work is concerned; she may leave her meals untasted, but that terrible craving within creates an appetite that is akin to ravenous where work is concerned. When that craving ceases she goes down--or breaks down.