"Never knew him to have such a thing," said Sir Norman, sighing. "It

is very mysterious and very dreadful, and notwithstanding all you have

said, I cannot believe him dead. Can he not remain here until morning,

at least?"

The starved apothecary looked at him out of a pair of hollow, melancholy

eyes.

"Gold can do anything," was his plaintive reply.

"I understand. You shall have it. Are you sure you can do nothing more

for him?"

"Nothing whatever, sir; and excuse me, but there are customers in the

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shop, and I must leave, sir."

Which he did, accordingly; and Sir Norman was left alone with all that

remained of him who, two hours before, was his warm friend. He could

scarcely believe that it was the calm majesty of death that so changed

the expression of that white face, and yet, the longer he looked, the

more deeply an inward conviction assured him that it was so. He chafed

the chilling hands and face, he applied hartshorn and burnt feathers to

the nostrils, but all these applications, though excellent in their way,

could not exactly raise the dead to life, and, in this case, proved

a signal, failure. He gave up his doctoring, at last, in despair, and

folding his arms, looked down at what lay on the table, and tried

to convince himself that it was Ormiston. So absorbed was he in the

endeavor, that he heeded not the passing moments, until it struck

him with a shock that Hubert might even now be waiting for him at the

trysting-place, with news of Leoline. Love is stronger than friendship,

stronger than grief, stronger than death, stronger than every other

feeling in the world; so he suddenly seized his hat, turned his back on

Ormiston and the apothecary's shop, and strode oft to the place he had

quitted.

No Hubert was there, but two figures were passing slowly along in the

moonlight, and one of them he recognized, with an impulse to spring

at him like a tiger and strangle him. But he had been so shocked and

subdued by his recent discovery, that the impulse which, half an hour

before, would have been unhesitatingly obeyed, went for nothing, now;

and there was more of reproach, even, than anger in his voice, as he

went over and laid his hand on the shoulder of one of them.

"Stay!" he said. "One word with you, Count L'Estrange. What have you

done with Leoline!"

"Ah! Sir Norman, as I live!" cried the count wheeling round and lifting

his hat. "Give me good even--or rather, good morning--Kingsley, for St.

Paul's has long gone the midnight hour."

Sir Norman, with his hand still on his shoulder, returned not the

courtesy, and regarding the gallant count with a stern eye.

"Where is Leoline?" he frigidly repeated.




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