ndition, and at once agreed to
the necessity of summoning a surgeon. He proposed that they should carry
Stephen Whitelaw to some stables, which lay at a safe distance from the
burning house, and make up some kind of bed for him there. He ran back to
dispatch one of the men to Crosber, and returned immediately with another
to remove his master.

But when they tried to raise the injured man between them, he cried out
to them to let him alone, they were murdering him. Let him lie where he
was; he would not be moved. So he was allowed to lie there, with his head
on his wife's lap, and his tortured body covered by a coat, which one of
the men brought him. His eyes closed again, and for some time he lay
without the slightest motion.

The fire was gaining ground every instant, and there was yet no sign of
the engine from Malsham; but Ellen Whitelaw scarcely heeded the work of
destruction. She was thinking only of the helpless stricken creature
lying with his head upon her lap; thinking of him perhaps in this hour of
his extremity with all the more compassion, because he had always been
obnoxious to her. She prayed for the rapid arrival of the surgeon, who
must surely be able to give some relief to her husband's sufferings, she
thought. It seemed dreadful for him to be lying like this, with no
attempt made to lessen his agony. After a long interval he lifted his
scorched eyelids slowly, and looked at her with a strange dim gaze.

"The west wing," he muttered; "is that burnt?"

"No, Stephen, not yet; but there's little hope they'll save any part of
the house."

"They must save that; the rest don't matter--I'm insured heavily; but
they must save the west wing."

His wife concluded from this that he had kept some of his money in one
of those western rooms. The seed-room perhaps, that mysterious padlocked
chamber, where she had heard the footstep. And yet she had heard him say
again and again that he never kept an unnecessary shilling in the house,
and that every pound he had was out at interest. But such falsehoods and
contradictions are common enough amongst men of miserly habits; and
Stephen Whitelaw would hardly be so anxious about those western rooms
unless something of value were hidden away there. He closed his eyes
again, and lay groaning faintly for some time; then opened them suddenly
with a frightened look and asked, in the same tone,

"The west wing--is the west wing afire yet?"

"The wind blows that way, Steph