will not leave us any more--not when I have spoken to
her and told her how cruel it was of her to go away. I do not know where
she is now; but at twelve, all of a sudden, there will be a kind of
trembling of the air--that is Nina--for she has been here before; how
long to twelve now, Maurice?" he asked, eagerly.

"Oh, it is a long time till twelve yet," his friend said. "I think, if I
were you, I would try to sleep for an hour or two; and I'll go into the
other room so as not to disturb you."

"No, no, Maurice," Lionel said, with panting vehemence. "You must not
stir! It is quite near, I tell you--it is close on twelve--watch the
cups, Maurice, and be ready to spring up and seize her hand and hold her
fast. Quite near twelve--surely I hear something--it is something
outside the window--like stringed instruments--and waves, dark
waves--no, no! Maurice, Maurice! it is in the next room!--it is some one
sobbing!--it is Nina!--Nina!"

He uttered a loud shriek and struggled wildly to raise himself; but
Maurice, with gentle pressure and persuasive words, got him to lie
still.

"It is past twelve now, Linn; and you see there has been nothing. We
must wait; and some day we will find out all about Nina for you. Of
course you would like to know about your old companion. Oh, we'll find
her, rest assured!"

Lionel had turned away, and was lying moaning and muttering to himself.
The only phrase his companion could make out was something about "a
wide, wide sea--and all dark."

But Maurice, finding him now comparatively quiet, stealthily put back
the various trinkets into the box and carried it into the other room.
And then, hearing no further sound, he remained there--remained until
the nurse came down to take his place.

He told her what had occurred; but she was familiar with these things,
and doubtless knew much better than himself how to deal with such
emergencies. At the street-door he paused to light his pipe--his first
smoke that day, and surely well-earned. Then he went away through the
dark thoroughfares down to Westminster, not without much pity and
sadness in his mind, also perhaps with some curious speculations--as to
the lot of poor, luckless mortals, their errors and redeeming virtues,
and the vagrant and cruel buffetings of fate.

CHAPTER XXIV.

FRIENDS IN NEED.

On the Monday morning matters were so serious that Mangan telegraphed
down to Winstead; but the old doctor and his wife and Francie were