"I loved her," the girl said softly. "She had lived a miserable life,

Mr. Betteredge--vile people had ill-treated her and led her wrong--and

it hadn't spoiled her sweet temper. She was an angel. She might have

been happy with me. I had a plan for our going to London together like

sisters, and living by our needles. That man came here, and spoilt it

all. He bewitched her. Don't tell me he didn't mean it, and didn't know

it. He ought to have known it. He ought to have taken pity on her.

'I can't live without him--and, oh, Lucy, he never even looks at me.'

That's what she said. Cruel, cruel, cruel. I said, 'No man is worth

fretting for in that way.' And she said, 'There are men worth dying

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for, Lucy, and he is one of them.' I had saved up a little money. I had

settled things with father and mother. I meant to take her away from

the mortification she was suffering here. We should have had a little

lodging in London, and lived together like sisters. She had a good

education, sir, as you know, and she wrote a good hand. She was quick at

her needle. I have a good education, and I write a good hand. I am not

as quick at my needle as she was--but I could have done. We might have

got our living nicely. And, oh! what happens this morning? what happens

this morning? Her letter comes and tells me that she has done with the

burden of her life. Her letter comes, and bids me good-bye for ever.

Where is he?" cries the girl, lifting her head from the crutch, and

flaming out again through her tears. "Where's this gentleman that I

mustn't speak of, except with respect? Ha, Mr. Betteredge, the day is

not far off when the poor will rise against the rich. I pray Heaven they

may begin with HIM. I pray Heaven they may begin with HIM."

Here was another of your average good Christians, and here was the usual

break-down, consequent on that same average Christianity being pushed

too far! The parson himself (though I own this is saying a great deal)

could hardly have lectured the girl in the state she was in now. All I

ventured to do was to keep her to the point--in the hope of something

turning up which might be worth hearing.

"What do you want with Mr. Franklin Blake?" I asked.

"I want to see him."

"For anything particular?"

"I have got a letter to give him."

"From Rosanna Spearman?"

"Yes."

"Sent to you in your own letter?"

"Yes."

Was the darkness going to lift? Were all the discoveries that I was

dying to make, coming and offering themselves to me of their own accord?

I was obliged to wait a moment. Sergeant Cuff had left his infection

behind him. Certain signs and tokens, personal to myself, warned me that

the detective-fever was beginning to set in again.




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