oncluded the last sentence, and the duke said:

"You had better rest now. A little rest will do more good than any
stimulant."

"You think so? Nay, rest would be death for me now. I must go on while my
nerves are strung up; once they relax, I die."

"Very well; I am listening attentively."

"As soon as Rose was discharged from custody I sought her out, and there
was a mutual explanation and reconciliation. But the testimony of John
Potts, given on the trial of Rose Cameron, had placed my life in great
jeopardy: so we secretly left the country. We went away separately for
our greater security. I went first. Rose came on a week later. We met by
appointment at L'Ange. In the obscurity of that village we hoped for
safety; but I was tormented by remorse; for the murder of Sir Lemuel
Levison lay heavily on my soul. There, my wife, Rose, gave birth to a
little girl, whom we secretly placed in the rotary basket at the door of
the Infants' Asylum attached to this convent. The good nuns received it,
and cared for it. They called it _Marie Perdue_, 'Lost Mary.' After
Rose's recovery, we went away, because it was not safe for us to remain
so near home with such sharpers as English detectives and French police
on our track. We took refuge in Italy, in the Sanctuary of the Holy See.
We stayed there several months, when, thinking that all pursuit had been
abandoned, and longing to see our child, we came on a flying visit to
L'Ange. But the police were on the watch for us. I was arrested, as you
have heard, on the day after my arrival. Quick work; but you see the
chief of police here telegraphed the police in London, and brought the
detectives hither within twenty-four hours. You know the rest. I am dying
here by my own hand. It was a mad, rash, impulsive act, for which I
am deeply sorry; but--I am dying in expiation of _my_ share in the
tragedy at Lone Castle."

The young duke took the emaciated hand of the failing man and pressed it
in silence; he was too deeply moved to trust himself to speak.

"I have but this to say now. I leave a wife and helpless child. They are
penniless and friendless. You will not let them starve," murmured the
man.

"Oh, no, no, I will care for them, believe me, as long as we all shall
live," said the duke, earnestly.

"That is all. Bid me good-by now. And when you go out ask good Sister
Francoise to send the priest," said John Scott, holding out his white,
cold hand.

"I will. Good-bye. May our m