ce, deterred me, and I
threw myself toward the bell instead, crying out that I would raise the
house if he moved, and laid my finger on the button.

The pistol swerved my way. The face above it smiled. I watched that
smile. Before it broadened to its full extent, I pressed the button.

Fairbrother stared, dropped his pistol, and burst forth with these two
words:

"Brave girl!"

The tone I can never convey.

Then he made for the door.

As he laid his hand on the knob, he called back:

"I have been in worse straits than this!"

But he never had; when he opened the door, he found himself face to face
with the inspector.

XXIII. THE GREAT MOGUL

Later, it was all explained. Mr. Grey, looking like another man, came
into the room where I was endeavoring to soothe his startled daughter
and devour in secret my own joy. Taking the sweet girl in his arms, he
said, with a calm ignoring of my presence, at which I secretly smiled:

"This is the happiest moment of my existence, Helen. I feel as if I had
recovered you from the brink of the grave."

"Me? Why, I have never been so ill as that."

"I know; but I have felt as if you were doomed ever since I heard, or
thought I heard, in this city, and under no ordinary circumstances, the
peculiar cry which haunts our house on the eve of any great misfortune.
I shall not apologize for my fears; you know that I have good cause for
them, but to-day, only to-day, I have heard from the lips of the most
arrant knave I have ever known, that this cry sprang from himself with
intent to deceive me. He knew my weakness; knew the cry; he was in
Darlington Manor when Cecilia died; and, wishing to startle me into
dropping something which I held, made use of his ventriloquial powers
(he had been a mountebank once, poor wretch!) and with such effect, that
I have not been a happy man since, in spite of your daily improvement
and continued promise of recovery. But I am happy now, relieved and
joyful; and this miserable being,--would you like to hear his story? Are
you strong enough for anything so tragic? He is a thief and a murderer,
but he has feelings, and his life has been a curious one, and strangely
interwoven with ours. Do you care to hear about it? He is the man who
stole our diamond."

My patient uttered a little cry.

"Oh, tell me," she entreated, excited, but not unhealthfully; while I
was in an anguish of curiosity I could with difficulty conceal.

Mr. Grey turned with