ttempted to explain the object of
his visit. But the old naval surgeon insisted on clearing the ground by
means of a plain question first. "Has your master sent you here--or is
this another private interview, like the last?"

"It is all that is most private," Toff answered; "my poor master is
wasting away in unrelieved wretchedness and suspense. Something must
be done for him. Oh, dear and good sir, help me in this most miserable
state of things! Tell me the truth about Miss Sally!"

Old Pinfold put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the parlour
wall, looking at the Frenchman with a complicated expression, in which
genuine sympathy mingled oddly with a quaint sense of amusement. "You're
a worthy chap," he said; "and you shall have the truth. I have been
obliged to deceive your master about this troublesome young Sally;
I have stuck to it that she is too ill to see him, or to answer his
letters. Both lies. There's nothing the matter with her now, but a
disease that I can't cure, the disease of a troubled mind. She's got
it into her head that she has everlastingly degraded herself in
his estimation by leaving him and coming here. It's no use telling
her--what, mind you, is perfectly true--that she was all but out of her
senses, and not in the least responsible for what she did at the time
when she did it. She holds to her own opinion, nevertheless. 'What can
he think of me, but that I have gone back willingly to the disgrace of
my old life? I should throw myself out of the window, if he came into
the room!' That's how she answers me--and, what makes matters worse
still, she's breaking her heart about him all the time. The poor wretch
is so eager for any little word of news about his health and his doings,
that it's downright pitiable to see her. I don't think her fevered
little brain will bear it much longer--and hang me if I can tell what to
do next to set things right! The two women, her friends, have no sort
of influence over her. When I saw her this morning, she was ungrateful
enough to say, 'Why didn't you let me die?' How your master got among
these unfortunate people is more than I know, and is no business of
mine; I only wish he had been a different sort of man. Before I knew him
as well as I know him now, I predicted, like a fool, that he would
be just the person to help us in managing the girl. I have altered
my opinion. He's such a glorious fellow--so impulsive and so
tender-hearted--that he would be