"Yes, ma'am."
"Open the door for Silas Jones, bookseller, Bayswater." And so had he been answered in harsh, unfeeling tones, as almost broken-hearted he had wended his lonely way mechanically back to the little parlor.
It is well he has sold out his business to the young man Mary has married, for he cannot give his mind to anything other than the loss of the one woman, in his simple loyalty, he has ever loved, and of how again to find her.
"Silas," said his sister, "I just now asked Dr. MacNeil, as he came up the street, how poor Mr. Cole is, and he says he is in for a bad attack of that nasty rheumatic fever; just think, brother, of him only out of brain fever and into this; it's out and out too bad."
"Does he ask for Sarah, still?"
"Yes; doctor says it's most pitiful to hear him; and he (doctor) says, but it's 'cause he doesn't know the truth, that, of course, they are not to be blamed for the not bringing her, since she be so bad."
"Sister, I can't stand this suspense and trouble any longer; it's killing me. If it costs me every penny I have in the world, I must find my Sarah. I shall go into the city to-morrow, and put the detectives to work."
At this juncture the shop door was hurriedly thrown open, when Sarah Kane, cold, pale, and trembling, followed by the driver of a hansom, came in quickly into their midst.
"Now, Missis, you'll be as good as your word, I 'ope, and gim me my fare."
But she is in the close embrace of Silas, while Mary pays, dismisses him, and locks the front door, her husband being in the great city.