haggard than ever, but still the face of the patient who
used to watch her as if her presence were a means of healing in itself.

"Yes," she said slowly, "that is--John Smith."

"His real name is Francis Trent," said Maurice. "Do you know this lady,
Francis?"

The sick man nodded. There was a curiously vacant look upon his face,
brightened only at times by gleams of vivid consciousness.

"Yes, yes, I know her. The lady that came to see me in hospital," he
murmured feebly.

"Do you know who she is?"

"Why do you trouble him, sir?" said Mrs. Trent. "You see how ill he is,
wouldn't it be better for him to be left in peace?"

She spoke with sedulous calmness; but there was a jar in her voice which
did not sound quite natural. Maurice simply repeated his question, and
Francis Trent shook his head.

"She is the wife of Caspar Brooke, the man who, you _say_, killed your
brother Oliver."

The sick man's eyes dilated, and fixed themselves uneasily on his wife.
"I did not say it," he answered, almost in a whisper. "Mary said it--not
I."

"But you heard something, did you not?" said Maurice remorselessly.

"How should he hear anything," said Mary Trent, "and he asleep in his
bed at the time? Or if not asleep, too ill and weak to notice anything.
It's a shame to question him like that; and not legal, neither. You'll
please to leave us to ourselves, sir; we ain't a show. We can but say
what we saw and heard, whatever the consequences may be, but we need not
be tortured for all that."

"That's enough, Mary," said the man speaking from the bed in a much more
natural manner and in a stronger voice than he had yet used. "You're
overdoing it--you always do. It's no good. This is the last stroke, and
I give up. It has gone against the grain with me to get anybody into
trouble," he said, looking attentively at Lady Alice, "and now that I
know who this lady is, I don't feel inclined to keep up the farce any
longer. I am much too ill to live to be hanged--Mr. Kenyon can tell you
so at any minute--and I may as well give you the satisfaction of
knowing that Caspar Brooke had nothing at all to do with Oliver's death:
I was his murderer, and no one else: I swear it, so help me God!"

Lady Alice turned very faint. Someone put her in a chair and fanned her,
and when she came to herself she heard Francis Trent's wife speaking.

"He's mad, I tell you. It's no good paying any attention to what he
says, gentlemen. I saw him myself in