"Yes--directly," he said hoarsely; and there was something very strange about his manner. "Shut the door, boy," he continued. "Look here, Antony; this note was inside the neck of her dress, as I opened it to give her air. You need not read it; but look at it. Tell me whether you have ever seen the handwriting before." I took the letter from him, and looked at the bold, free, rather peculiar hand, which I recognised on the instant. "Oh yes!" I exclaimed, "often." "Whose writing is it?" he said, pressing his hand upon his breast to keep down the emotion that seemed ready to choke him. "Don't speak rashly, Antony; make sure before you give an answer." "But I am sure," I exclaimed, without a moment's hesitation. "I have often seen it--it is Mr Lister's writing. What does it mean?" "Mean?" cried Hallett, in a low, deep voice, as if speaking to some one across the room, for he was not looking at me. "My God, what does it not mean, but that John Lister is a villain!" CHAPTER FORTY TWO. A QUESTION OF LAW. Stephen Hallett's model was still at rest; for, poor fellow, he had now a fresh trouble upon his hands. The excitement had been too much for Linny, and he got her home to find her delirious; a severe attack of brain fever came on, and her life was, for many days, hanging by a thread. I was there every evening, to find that Mary had installed herself head nurse, and whenever Hallett spoke to her, she was always ready with the one reply: "Didn't she come and tend my pore Bill?" This went on for a time, but Hallett insisted, and Mary proving obdurate, he talked to Revitts about remuneration. "Oh, never mind about that," said the bluff fellow. "She says she's got plenty of time on her hands, and we've both saved a bit, and as long as she gets what I want, and is at home when I come, it don't interfere with me; and bless your heart, Mr Hallett, what would life be if one on us wouldn't do a good turn to another?" "Yes, but I cannot feel satisfied to let your good wife work for me for nothing." "Ah," said Bill sagely. "That's the worst of eddication, it makes a man so uppish. No offence, Mr Hallett, sir, but you being a highly eddicated man--" "Tut--tut! nonsense!" said Hallett, smiling. "Oh, but you are, you know," said Revitts. "Ant'ny says you are, and it's wonderful what a power o' stuff that there young chap's got in his head. I come the top-sawyer over him when he first come up to London; but, Lor' bless you! I give in to everything out o' the ornerary in no time. It's on'y nat'ral that eddication should make a man uppish. I've felt a deal more so since Ant'ny's given me a lift in spellin'. I always was a good writer, but my spellin', Mr Hallett, sir! Ha--ha--ha!" he cried, bursting out in a guffaw; "I know now when I looks back at some of my old books, it was a rum 'un. Them big words was just like so many forty-barred gates to my getting promoted."