"Lesley--are you there?"

"Yes, I am with you, darling: I am here."

"You are crying."

"I am crying for you, Ethel, dear."

For the first time, Ethel's hand answered to her pressure. After a little silence, she spoke again--

"I wish I could die--too."

"My poor little Ethel."

"I suppose there is no chance of that. People--like me--don't die. They only suffer--and suffer--and break their hearts--and live till they are eighty. Oh, if you were kind to me, you would give me something to make me die."

She shuddered, and crept a little closer to Lesley's bosom. "Oh, why must he go--without me--without me?" she cried. And then she burst out suddenly into bitter weeping, and with Lesley's arms about her she wept away some of the "perilous stuff" of misery which had seemed likely to destroy the balance of her brain. When those tears came her reason was saved, and Lesley was wise enough to be rea.s.sured and not alarmed by them.

She was very much exhausted when the burst of tears was over, and Lesley was allowed to feed her with strong soup, which she took submissively from her friend. "You won't go?" she whispered, when the meal was done.

And Lesley whispered back: "I will not go, darling, so long as you want me here."

"I want you--always." Then with a gleam of returning strength and memory: "What was it they said about your father?"

Lesley shivered.

"Never mind, Ethel, dear," she said.

"But--I know--I remember. That he was--a--oh, I can't say the word. But that is not true."

"I _know_ it is not true. It is a foolish, cruel mistake."

"It could not be true," Ethel murmured. "He was always kind and good.

Tell him--from me--that I don't believe it, Lesley. And don't let them take you away from me."

Holding Lesley's hand in hers, at last she fell asleep; and sleep was the very thing that was likely to restore her. The doctor came and went, forbidding the household to disturb the quiet of the sick-room; and after a time, Lesley, exhausted by the excitements and anxieties of the day, laid her head on the pillow and also slept. It was late in the afternoon when Maurice Kenyon, stealing softly into the room, found the two heads close together on one pillow, the arms interlaced, the slumber of one as deep as of the other. His eyes filled with tears as he looked at the sleeping figures. "Poor girls!" he muttered to himself. "Well for them if they can sleep; but I fear that theirs will be a sad awakening."

Suddenly Lesley opened her eyes. The color rushed to her pale cheeks as she saw who was regarding her, but she had sufficient self-control not to start or move too hastily. Ethel altered her position at that moment, and left Lesley free to rise, then sank back to slumber. And, obeying a silent motion of Maurice Kenyon's hand, Lesley followed him noiselessly into the dressing-room.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

THE EVIDENCE.

"She ought not to be left alone: I promised not to leave her," said Lesley in a low tone.

"I have brought a nurse with me. She can go in and sit by the bed until you are ready to return," said Maurice, quietly. "Call us, nurse, if my sister wakes and asks for us; but be very careful not to disturb her unnecessarily."

The nurse, whose face Lesley scanned with involuntary interest, was gentle and sensible-looking, with kindly eyes and a strong, well-shaped mouth. She looked like a woman to be trusted; and Lesley was therefore not sorry to see her pa.s.s into Ethel's room. She had felt very conscious of her own ignorance of nursing during the past few hours, and had not much confidence in the sense or judgment of any woman in the house.

Maurice made her sit down, and then stood looking at her for a moment.

"You are terribly pale," he said at last. "Will you come downstairs and let me give you something to eat and drink?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I want nothing. And Ethel may need me: I cannot bear to be far away."

"Have you had nothing all day? It is after five o'clock."

She shook her head.

"Then you must eat before I talk to you. I have several things to say, and you must have strength to listen. Sit still: I will be back directly."

He went away, and Lesley leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

She was very weary, but even in her trouble there was some sweetness for her in the knowledge that Maurice was attending to her needs. When he returned with wine and food, she roused herself to accept both, knowing very well that he would not tell her what she wanted to hear until she had done his bidding. The door between bed and dressing room was closed; the house was very quiet, and the light was dim. Maurice spoke at last, in grave, low tones.

"I have just come from your father," he said. Lesley started and clasped her hands. "Is he at home again?"

"No. They would not let him go. But take heart--we, who know him, will stand by him until he is a free man."

"Then you believe--as I believe?" she asked, tremulously.

"Would it be possible for me to do otherwise? Hasn't he been my friend for many a year? You have surely no need to ask!"

Lesley, looking up at him, stretched out her hand in silence. He took it in both his own and kissed it tenderly. Seeing her grief, and seeing also her sympathy for another woman who grieved, had, for the time being, cured him of his anger against her. He had cherished some bitter feeling towards her for a while; but he forgot it now.

"I am as sure," he said, fervently, "that Caspar Brooke could not commit murder as I am sure that _you_ could not. It is an absurdity to think of it."

"Then what has made people think of it?" asked Lesley. "How has it come about?"

Maurice paused. "There is a mystery somewhere," he said slowly, "which is a little difficult to fathom. Can you bear to hear the details? Your father told me to tell them to you--as gently as I could."

"Tell me all--all, please."

"Poor Oliver Trent was found dead early this morning on the stair of a lodging-house in Whitechapel. I have been to the place myself: it is now under the care of the police. He had been beaten about the head ... it was very horrible ... with a thick oaken staff or walking stick ... the stick lay beside him, covered with blood, where he was found. The stick was--was your father's, unfortunately: it must have been stolen by some ruffian for the purpose--and--and----"

He stopped short, as if the story were too hard to tell. Lesley sat watching his face, which was as pale as her own.

"Go on," she said, quickly. "What else?"

"A pocket-book--with gilt letters on the back: C. B. distinctly marked.

That was also found on the stairs, as if it had dropped from the pocket of some man as he went down. And it is proved--indeed, your father tells me so--that he went to that house last night and did not leave it until nearly midnight."

"But why was he there?"

"He went to see the man and woman who lived in the top room of that lodging-house. I think you know the woman. She was once your maid----"

"Mary Kingston? She came to our house that very afternoon. She must have asked my father to go to see her--he spoke kindly of her to me. But why did Mr. Trent go there too?"