n with you in a moment. What I fear is fever,
consequent on the shock. If we can keep off that, she will most likely
awaken sensible enough. I hope so, I am sure, for the sake of catching
that cowardly villain, whoever he was."

"He must have meant to murder her, you think, sir?" inquired Mrs.
Jessop, smoothing her cap-ribbons, thoughtfully.

"I am afraid so. Poor girl! She is quite young?"

"Yes, sir."

"And most remarkably handsome?"

"No doubt, sir."

"She is a foreigner, I fancy. It is most unfortunate that there is
nothing on her by which we can identify her. By the way--I did not
notice--did you see if she wore rings?"

"No, sir."

"Not a wedding-ring?"--"No, sir."

"And not a trinket of any kind about her?"

"Not one, sir."

"Nothing whatever?" persisted the Doctor musingly, as he held out his
hands to the fire. They were cold, for the February night air was keen.

"There was this, sir," said Mrs. Jessop, abruptly.

She held out to him upon the palm of her plump hand a tiny roll of
paper, tied with a wisp of faded red silk.

"Where did you find this?"

"In a little pocket inside the bosom of her gown, sir--it looked as if
it had been made for it."

"Have you read it?"--"No, sir. It's gibberish."

The Doctor untied and unrolled the little packet, then looked at it by
the gaslight. It was covered with characters of a deep red color,
curious and fantastic, and to him absolutely meaningless. It looked
strange, uncanny, witch-like. Was it a charm? The Doctor studied it
wonderingly for a few moments, and then laughed at the thought of such
an absurd fancy assailing him! He rolled up and re-tied the little
packet.

"Well, that won't help us much," he said. "As I thought, we must wait
for light from her, poor girl. Take care of it, Mrs. Jessop; she may
attach some fanciful value to it."

Doctor Brudenell, standing by the bed in the comfortable room, to which
the unknown woman had been carried, looked down at her curiously and
scrutinizingly. Upon the white pillows he saw a pale face lying--a face
that was exquisitely chiseled, the head crowned by a wonderful mass of
thick black hair.

"Beautiful!" he muttered, under his breath, and turning away. "I should
fancy it was jealousy!"

The next day's papers contained a sufficiently thrilling account of the
attempted murder of a lady in Rockmore Street; but, although an
elaborate description of the victim's person and attire was given and
enlarge