already have reached London.

And so it came about that, consumed at once by the desire to
make confession to whomsoever it might be, and the wish to
attempt yet to avert the crowning evil of whose planning he was
partly guilty inasmuch as he had tacitly consented to Joseph's
schemes, Gregory called for his daughter. She came readily
enough, hoping for exactly that which was about to take place,
yet fearing sorely that her hopes would suffer frustration, and
that she would learn nothing from her father.

"Cynthia," he cried, in mingled dread and sorrow, "Cynthia, my
child, I am about to die."

She knew both from Stephen and from the leech that this was far
from being his condition. Nevertheless her filial piety was at
that moment a touching sight. She smoothed his pillows with a
gentle grace that was in itself a soothing caress, even as her
soft sympathetic voice was a caress. She took his hand, and
spoke to him endearingly, seeking to relieve the sombre mood
whose prey he was become, assuring him that the leech had told
her his danger was none so imminent, and that with quiet and a
little care he would be up and about again ere many days were
sped. But Gregory rejected hopelessly all efforts at
consolation.

"I am on my death-bed, Cynthia," he insisted, "and when I am
gone I know not whom there may be to cheer and comfort your lot
in life. Your lover is away on an errand of Joseph's, and it
may well betide that he will never again cross the threshold of