"The girl,--one of those hospital ladies," continued Classon,--"a
certain Miss Kellett, is also a prisoner."

"Miss Kellett!" cried Driscoll, in amazement and terror together. "I
know her well, and if she's here she 'll outwit us both."

"She's in safe hands this time, let her be as cunning as she will. In
fact, my dear Driscoll, the game is our own if we be but true to each
other."

"I 'm more afraid of that girl than them all," muttered Driscoll.

"Look over those hills yonder, Driscoll, and say if that prison-house be
not strong enough to keep her. Mr. Reggis and herself are likely to see
Moscow before they visit Cheapside. Remember, however, if the field be
our own, it is only for a very brief space of time. Conway is dying.
What is to be done must be done quickly; and as there is no time for
delay, Driscoll, tell me frankly what is it worth to you?" Terry sneezed
and wiped his eyes, and sneezed again,--all little artifices to gain
time and consider how he should act.

"My instructions are these," said Classon, boldly: "to get Conway to
sign a bond abdicating all claim to certain rights in lieu of a good
round sum in hand; or, if he refuse--" S.

"Which he certainly would refuse," broke in Driscoll.

"Well, then, to possess myself of his papers, deeds, letters, whatever
they were,--make away with them, or with any one holding them. Ay,
Driscoll, it is sharp practice, my boy; but we 're just now in a land
where sudden death dispenses with a coroner's inquest, and the keenest
inquirer would be puzzled whether the fatal bullet came from a Russian
rifle or a Croat carbine. Lend me a helping hand here, and I 'll pledge
myself that you are well paid for it. Try and dodge me, and I'll back
myself to beat you at your own game."

"Here's an order for one of you gentlemen," said an hospital orderly,
"coming up to see Lieutenant Conway."

"It is for me," said Driscoll, eagerly; "I'm a relation of his."

"And I am his family chaplain," said Classon, rising; "well go
together." And before Driscoll could interpose a word, Paul slipped his
arm within the other's and led him away.

CHAPTER XXXII. SHOWING "HOW WOUNDS ARE HEALED"

On a low little bed in a small chamber, once a cell of the Convent,
Charles Conway lay, pale, bloodless, and breathing heavily. The
surgeon's report of that morning called him "mortally wounded," and
several of his comrades had already come to bid him farewell. To
alleviate in some m