rn with the greatest safety; and then whatever
happens, you will be at hand to protect my lady. Consider, again, as
her maid, you can be with her always--in her own room; at night;
everywhere and at all times; while Mr. Mountjoy could only be with her
now and then, and at the price of not quarrelling with her husband."

"Yes," said Fanny.

"And you are strong, and Mr. Mountjoy is weak and ill."

"You think that I should go back to Passy?"

"At once, without the delay of an hour. Lady Harry started last night.
Do you start this evening. She will thus have you with her twenty-four
hours after her arrival."

Fanny rose.

"I will go," she said. "It terrifies me even to think of going back to
that awful cottage with that dreadful man. Yet I will go. Mrs. Vimpany,
I know that it will be of no use. Whatever is going to happen now will
happen without any power of mine to advance or to prevent. I am certain
that my journey will prove useless. But I will go. Yes, I will go this
evening."

Then, with a final promise to write as soon as possible--as soon as
there should be anything to communicate--Fanny went away.

Mrs. Vimpany, alone, listened. From the bedroom came no sound at all.
Mr. Mountjoy slept still. When he should be strong enough it would be
time to let him know what had been done. But she sat
thinking--thinking--even when one has the worst husband in the world,
and very well knows his character, it is disagreeable to hear such a
story as Fanny had told that wife this morning.

CHAPTER LII

THE DEAD MAN'S PHOTOGRAPH

"HE is quite dead," said the doctor, with one finger on the man's pulse
and another lifting his eyelid. "He is dead. I did not look for so
speedy an end. It is not half an hour since I left him breathing
peacefully. Did he show signs of consciousness?"

"No, sir; I found him dead."

"This morning he was cheerful. It is not unusual in these complaints. I
have observed it in many cases of my own experience. On the last
morning of life, at the very moment when Death is standing on the
threshold with uplifted dart, the patient is cheerful and even joyous:
he is more hopeful than he has felt for many months: he thinks--nay, he
is sure--that he is recovering: he says he shall be up and about before
long: he has not felt so strong since the beginning of his illness.
Then Death strikes him, and he falls." He made this remark in a most
impressive manner.

"Nothing remains," he said, "but to cer