must speak to you about
Luke."

And the lips, stiff and cold, opened slightly and from between them
escaped the word, feebly, like the breath of a dying man:

"Luke!"

"He is in grave danger. Lord Radclyffe," she said slowly, "in danger
of death."

And this time the faded lips framed the word distinctly:

"Luke--in danger of death!"

The hands which had lain on the quilt up to now, still and waxen as
those of a lifeless image, began to tremble visibly, and the
eyes--those great, hollow eyes--had a searching, anxious expression in
them now.

"Philip de Mountford has been murdered," said Louisa. "You knew that,
did you not?"

The sick man nodded. Life and consciousness were slowly returning and
with them understanding and the capacity for suffering.

"And Luke is accused of having murdered him."

The trembling of the hands ceased. With a quick, jerky movement they
were drawn back against the figure, then used as a leverage. With a
sudden accession of strength, the sick man slowly but steadily drew
himself up, away from the pillows, until he was almost sitting up in
bed. There was understanding in the eyes now, understanding and an
awful look of horror.

"It is not true!" he murmured.

"It is true," she said. "Luke was known to have quarrelled with Philip
de Mountford, and the dagger-stick with which the crime was committed
was found in the park--stained with blood--the dagger-stick which
belonged to Luke."

"Luke didn't do it," murmured the sick man.

"I know that he didn't," she replied firmly, "but he pleads guilty. He
owns that the stick was his, and will give no denial, no explanation.
He is taking upon himself the crime of another----"

"It is not true!" once more murmured the sick man.

Then he fell back exhausted against the pillows.

There he lay once more, with that awful stillness of death: the hands
rested on the quilt as if modelled in wax. The eyes were closed, and
from between the pale, parted lips not the faintest breath seemed to
escape. Helpless and anxious, Louisa looked round her. On a table
close by stood an array of bottles. She went up to it, trying to read
the labels, wondering if there was anything there that was a powerful
restorative. She found a small bottle labelled "brandy" and took it up
in her hand, but as she looked up again, she saw Doctor Newington
standing in the doorway of the boudoir. One of the nurses was with
him, and he was armed with his most pompous and mos