n't I do nothing for you, S'Richard?" whispered Jerry. "I'd do
anything for you, sir; indeed, I would."

"Go to my cousin's room and wait till you can get some news. Jerry, if
it comes to the worst, I shall go mad."

The man looked at him compassionately, and then went out on tiptoe, to
return after an interval to thrust in his head, which he gave a mournful
shake, and then withdrew.

The evening passed and the night was gliding on, with Richard still
pacing the room from time to time, when Jerry once more came to the
door, glided in, closed it, and hurriedly whispered--

"The doctor's down from London, sir, and he's still in Mr Mark's room."

"What does he say?" cried Richard, wildly.

"Can't tell yet, sir; but as soon as ever I hear I'll come back."

Jerry crept away, and the prisoner sat down once more to think. He felt
that he would soon know now--that he would shortly have to face the
awful truth--and a chilling feeling of despair came upon him with
redoubled violence; while, as he sat there, he gave up all hope. There
was the future to face, and now a great change seemed to come over him,
as if it were the energy begotten of despair.

There was the worst to face, with the inquest, the examination, and the
possibility of the wrong construction still being placed upon his acts.
Everything had gone against him, everything would continue to go against
him, and he told himself that it was impossible to face it. His word
seemed to go for nothing; and, yielding to the horror of his position,
he sat there in the darkest part of his room, wishing earnestly that he
could exchange places with the unhappy lad lying yonder between life and
death.

Suddenly he started, for, sounding solemn and strange in the midnight
air, the bell of the Cathedral boomed out the hour, the long-drawn
strokes of the hammer seeming as if they would never come to an end;
while, when the last stroke fell, it was succeeded in the silence of the
night by a dull, quivering vibration that slowly died away.

And there, with overstrained nerves, Richard Frayne sat, waiting still
for the coming of the news. He must have that, he told himself, before
he could act; but still it did not come.

Twice over he went to the door, with the intention of opening it to
listen, but he shrank away.

No. He felt that he was a prisoner, and he could not lay a hand upon
the lock. He would wait until the man came.

But it was half-past one before the