"Yes; called out 'Mary Grimm!' 'Mary Grimm!' a dozen times, at least. Now, yours is not such a common name, is it?" As she spoke the woman's eyes twinkled with malice. Dr. Duncan looked from one to the other. What Susan had said puzzled and disturbed him. Was this the clue to Mary's secret, he wondered. She called her Mary Grimm, too; why _Grimm_? Mary divined his thoughts, and turning to him said simply, "I _was_ called 'Grimm.' That was my real name, but when my aunt adopted me I took her name." Then addressing Susan, "I cannot conceive who this poor man can be, for I am not aware that I know any gentlemen, even by sight, except the doctors and students at the hospital." Mary instinctively knew what suspicions were passing through her lover's mind, but conscious of her innocence she spoke without exhibiting any signs of confusion. His mind was much relieved by her words. "No, it is not a man that is between us," he said to himself. Then suddenly he called to mind the adventures of the previous night. "How old would you take this man to be?" he asked anxiously of Susan. "About thirty," was the reply. He quickened his pace unconsciously, and did not speak again till they were at the gate of the hospital. Then he turned to Mary and said, "I will go and see this poor fellow myself first; then I will come for you. You may be able to identify him." The three entered the hospital together. * * * * * Dr. Duncan went into the private ward in which the man lay. He found him asleep and breathing stertorously. Drugs had done their work for the time. The nurse who was in attendance on him had left his bedside a few minutes before, so the doctor was alone with the sick man. He approached the bed. It was as he expected. He recognised Hudson's face at once, partly concealed though it was by the bandages that had been placed on the wounds the barrister had inflicted on himself against the stones of Devereux Court. He re-arranged the pillow of the insensible man, and then stood by him a few moments, contemplating the altered features of his old school-fellow. Dr. Duncan was anything but a religious man, but the idea came to him then to do a thing which he had not perhaps done for several years. Recent circumstances had made the strong wilful man feel as a little child again. He knelt down by the bedside of his friend and prayed for him, or rather did something very like it; for his thoughts as he knelt were not framed into distinct language. No _words_ came to his mind, but he was filled with a vague aspiration, a sense of his own weakness, a consciousness of higher things, a confident belief that the Universal Mercy would have a pity for his poor friend infinitely greater than was even his own pity--a prayer without a petition, without words, or even distinct ideas, but perchance a true prayer for all that. CHAPTER XV. IN THE LAND OF PHANTOMS.