"My son, my son," he said, laying his withered hand on Ernscliffe's arm, "forgive the poor soul; he is almost beyond your resentment. Think where his soul will be to-morrow night. Give him your hand in token of pardon." "No, no," said the listener, shuddering; "I will not touch his hand, but--but"--with a great effort--"I will forgive him." "Tell _her_ to forgive me, too," said Leon Vinton, looking at him with his wild, frightened face. "Tell her I am sorry--tell her that I repent. She is an angel. She will forgive me." The door closed upon the retreating form, and the gentle priest knelt down and began to pray for the guilty soul so soon to be launched into a dread eternity. CHAPTER XLIII. Captain Ernscliffe found that it was almost midnight when he reached home after his visit to the condemned murderer. He was too excited for sleep, and going to the library he turned up the dimly-lighted gas and prepared to spend the remaining hours of the night among his books. A pleasant warmth pervaded the luxurious apartment, and the fragrance of some white hyacinths, blooming in vases on the marble mantel, filled the air with sweetness. They were Queenie's favorite flowers. He remembered the one she had worn on her breast the day he had come upon her in her strange interview with Sydney. Breaking off a beautiful spray he pressed it to his lips, then pinned it on his coat. "I wonder where she is now?" he said to himself, with a heavy sigh, as he drew up a chair to the table and laid his head down upon his folded arms. Something rustled under his touch as he did so, and he looked up quickly. There was a sealed letter lying upon the table, addressed to himself in an unfamiliar writing. It had been laid there by a servant while he was absent. Mechanically he tore it open and glanced at the bottom of the page for his unknown correspondent's name. "Robert Lyle," he read, aloud, with a suddenly quickened heart-beat. Yes, it was from Robert Lyle--a brief note, coldly and curtly written. "CAPTAIN ERNSCLIFFE," it simply ran, "I arrived in this city to-day with your wife. She is now quite well and prepared to defend her case at any time the lawyers agree upon--to-morrow, if necessary." That was all. It was brief, cold, and to the point. Yet the reader's heart thrilled with sudden joy. "She is here in this city; she is well," he said to himself. "Oh, how can I wait until to-morrow?" But he waited, nevertheless, though burning with anxiety and impatience, and at the earliest permissible hour he was shown into Robert Lyle's private parlor at the hotel where he was stopping. Mr. Lyle was sitting cozily over his morning paper and cigar, his slippered feet on the fender, his gorgeous dressing-gown wrapped comfortably around him. He rose in some surprise as his unexpected visitor was ushered in.