aymark, her face close down to his.

"He is alive!" she cried. "His eyes have opened. A knife! Cut these
cords!"

That was soon accomplished, but Waymark lay motionless; he showed that
he understood what was going on, but he was quite blind, his voice had
all but gone, and a dead man could as soon have risen. Ida still knelt
by him, chafing one of his hands; when he tried to speak, she gently
raised his head and let it rest upon her lap. In a few minutes Abraham
had procured a glass of spirits, and, after drinking this, Waymark was
able to make himself understood.

"Who is touching me?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "It is all dark.
Whose hand is this?"

"It's Ida," Abraham said, when she herself remained silent. "She and I
have had a rare hunt for you."

"Ida?"

He endeavoured to raise himself, but in vain. All he could do was to
press her hand to his heart. In the meantime the policeman had come up,
and with his help Waymark was carried downstairs, out into the court,
and thence to the end of Litany Lane, where the cab still waited.

* * * * *

Four days after this the following paragraph appeared in the morning
papers:--

"The man wanted on a charge of robbery with violence in the East End,
and who appears to be known only by the nickname of Slimy, was
yesterday afternoon discovered by the police in a cellar in Limehouse.
He seems to have been in hiding there since the perpetration of the
crime, only going out from time to time to purchase liquor at
public-houses in the neighbourhood. Information given by the landlord
of one of these houses led to his arrest. He was found lying on the
stone floor, with empty bottles about him, also a quantity of gold and
silver coins, which appeared to have rolled out of his pocket. He was
carried to the police-station in an insensible state, but on being
taken to the cell, came to himself, and exhibited symptoms of delirium
tremens. Two officers remained with him, but the assistance of a third
shortly became necessary, owing to the violence of his struggles.
Towards midnight his fury lessened, and, after a very brief interval of
unconsciousness, the wretched creature expired."

CHAPTER XXXI

NEW PROSPECTS

Mr. Woodstock's house at Tottenham was a cheerful abode when the months
of early summer came round, and there was thick leafage within the
shelter of the old brick wall which shut it off from the road.

For the first time in his