spoke again.

"Not that it makes much difference now, Mary," he said. "I don't think
there is much left of me."

"Do not say that, Walter," she answered gently. "Rest now. The more you
rest the sooner you will be well again. Try and sleep."

"Sleep--no--I cannot sleep. I have murdered sleep--like Macbeth, Mary,
like Macbeth--Do you remember Macbeth?"

"Hush," said Mary Goddard, endeavouring to calm him, though she turned
pale at his strange quotation. "Hush--"

"That is to say," said the sick man, heedless of her exhortation and
soothing touch, "that is to say, I did not. He was very wide awake, and
if I had not been quick, I should never have got off. Ugh! How damp that
cellar was, that first night. That is where I got my fever. It is fever,
I suppose?" he asked, unable to keep his mind for long in one groove.
"What does the doctor say? Has he been here?"

"Yes. He said you would soon be well; but he said you must be kept very
quiet. So you must not talk, or I will go away."

"Oh Mary, don't go--don't go! It's like--ha! ha! it's quite like old
times, Mary!" He laughed harshly, a hideous, half-delirious laugh.

Mary Goddard shuddered but made a great effort to control herself.

"Yes," she said gently, "it is like old times. Try and think that it is
the old house at Putney, Walter. Do you hear the sparrows chirping, just
as they used to do? The curtains are the same colour, too. You used to
sleep so quietly at the old house. Try and sleep now. Then you will
soon get well. Now, I will sit beside you, but I will not talk any
more--there--are you quite comfortable? A little higher? Yes--so. Go to
sleep."

Her quiet voice soothed him, and her gentle hands made his rest more
easy. She sat down beside him, thinking from his silence that he would
really go to sleep; hoping and yet not hoping, revolving in her mind the
chances of his escape, so soon as he should be strong enough to attempt
it, shuddering at the thought of what his fate must be if he again fell
into the hands of the police. She did not know that a detective was at
that moment in the house, determined to carry her husband away so soon as
the doctor pronounced it possible. Nothing indeed, not even that
knowledge could have added much to the burden of her sorrows as she sat
there, a small and graceful figure with a sad pathetic face, leaning
forward as she sat and gazing drearily at the carpet, where the sunlight
crept in beneath the curtains from the br