The lack of what Karl considered "safety," as he spoke it in his answer, would have consisted in the highway before the Maze gates being peopled; in his being seen to enter. It was so very unfrequented a road that not a soul would pass up or down for a quarter of an hour together; nay, for half one; and, as a rule, Karl was safe. But he exercised his precaution always. He would saunter towards the gate, as though merely taking a stroll on the shady side path; and then, the coast being clear, ring--for by day-time he never used his own key. His ears and eyes alike on the alert; he, if by mal-chance some solitary passenger should appear, would saunter over to Mr. Smith and talk to him: and then slip in when the intruder should have passed, Ann Hopley having the door by that time ready to open. Karl would use the same precaution coming out: and hitherto had escaped observation. It was not always to be so. The time passed on: Sir Adam fluctuating, some days fearfully ill, some days feeling well and hearty; and Mrs. Cleeve continuing at Foxwood, for she could not bear to leave Lucy. Karl went across one morning soon after breakfast. His brother had been very ill indeed the evening before: so ill that Karl had brought most unpleasant thoughts away with him. He was ringing at the gate when it suddenly opened; Ann Hopley was letting out Mr. Moore. So far as _his_ visits went, there had been no trouble. Foxwood had taken care to inform itself as to what patient at the Maze it was that Mr. Moore was again in regular attendance upon, and found it to be Hopley the gardener. The old man had caught an attack of rheumatic fever, or some other affection connected with age and knee joints--said the Miss Moores to the rest of the fair flock going to and from St. Jerome's. There was neither interest nor romance attaching to the poor old man; so the doctor was at liberty to pass in and out at will without the slightest thought being given to it. In the doctor's day-book the patient, was entered as "James Hopley, Mrs. Grey's servant" The doctor's assistant, a fashionable young man from London, who wore an eye-glass stuck in his eye, could have the pleasure of reading it ten times a day if he chose. "How is he?" asked Karl of Mr. Moore. "Oh, better this morning--as I expected he would be," was the surgeon's answer. "But I have ordered him to lie in bed for the day. This time I think he will obey me, for he feels uncommonly weak." "Every fresh attack makes him weaker," observed Karl. "Why of course it does: it must do so. I don't half like the responsibility that lies on me," continued the doctor. "We ought to have another opinion." "How can it be had?" remonstrated Karl. "There it is--how? I wish he could be in London under the constant care of one of its practised men."