He labors a moment for breath, and then says:

"You have been so good--will--will you do one thing--more?"

"If I can."

"I want my--mother to know--I am dead. She was not always good--but she was--my mother."

"Tell me her name, and where to find her?"

The voice of the dying man sinks lower. Stanhope bends to catch the whispered reply, and then asks:

"Can you answer a few questions that I am anxious to put to you?"

"Y--yes."

"Now that you know yourself dying, are you willing to tell me anything I may wish to know?"

"You are the--only man--who was ever--merciful to me," said the dying man. "I will tell you--anything."

Turning to the nurse, Stanhope makes a sign which she understands, and, nodding a reply, she goes softly from the room.

When Richard Stanhope and the dying man are left alone, the detective bends his head close to the pillows, and the questions asked, and the answers given, are few and brief.

Suddenly the form upon the bed becomes convulsed, the eyes roll wildly and then fix themselves upon Stanhope's face.

"You promise," gasps the death-stricken man, "you will tell them--"

The writhing form becomes limp and lifeless, the eyes take on a gla.s.sy stare, and there is a last fluttering breath.

Richard Stanhope closes the staring eyes, and speaks his answer in the ears of the dead.

"I will tell them, poor fellow, at the right time, but--before my duty to the dead, comes a duty to the living!"

CHAPTER XXII.

A BUSINESS CALL.

It was grey dawn when Stanhope left the hospital and turned his face homeward, and then it was not to sleep, but to pa.s.s the two hours that preceded his breakfast-time in profound meditation.

Seated in a lounging-chair, with a fragrant cigar between his lips, he looked the most care-free fellow in the world. But his active brain was absorbed in the study of a profound problem, and he was quite oblivious to all save that problem's solution.

Whatever the result of his meditation, he ate his breakfast with a keen relish, and a countenance of serene content, and then set off for a morning call upon Mr. Follingsbee.

He found that legal gentleman preparing to walk down to his office; and after an interchange of salutations, the two turned their faces townward together.

"Well, Stanhope," said the lawyer, linking his arm in that of the detective with friendly familiarity, "how do you prosper?"

"Very well; but I must have an interview with Mrs. Warburton this morning."

"Phew! and you want me to manage it?"

"Yes."

The lawyer considered a moment.

"You know that the Warburtons are overwhelmed with calamity?" he said.

Stanhope glanced sharply from under his lashes, and then asked carelessly:

"Of what nature?"

"Archibald Warburton lies dying; his little daughter has been stolen."

"What!" The detective started, then mastering his surprise, said quietly: "Tell me about it."

Briefly the lawyer related the story as he knew it, and then utter silence fell between them, while Richard Stanhope lost himself in meditation. At last he said:

"It's a strange state of affairs, but it makes an immediate interview with the lady doubly necessary. Will you arrange it at once?"

"You are clever at a disguise: can you make yourself look like a gentleman of my cloth?"

"Easily," replied Stanhope, with a laugh.

"Then I'll send Leslie--Mrs. Warburton, a note at once, and announce the coming of myself and a friend, on a matter of business."

An hour later, a carriage stopped before the Warburton doorway, and two gentlemen alighted.

The first was Mr. Follingsbee, who carried in his hand a packet of legal-looking papers. The other was a trim, prim, middle-aged gentleman, tightly b.u.t.toned-up in a spotless frock coat, and looking preternaturally grave and severe.

They entered the house together, and the servant took up to Leslie the cards of Mr. Follingsbee and "S. Richards, attorney."

With pale, anxious face, heavy eyes, and slow, dragging steps, Leslie appeared before them, and extended her hand to Mr. Follingsbee, while she cast a glance of anxious inquiry toward the seeming stranger.

"How is Archibald?" asked the lawyer, briskly.

"Sinking; failing every moment," replied Leslie, sadly.

"And there is no news of the little one?"

"Not a word."

There was a sob in her throat, and Mr. Follingsbee, who hated a scene, turned abruptly toward his companion, saying:

"Ours is a business call, Leslie, and as the business is Mr. Stanhope's not mine, I will retire to the library while it is being transacted."