"Try, Billy; try to recollect--for my sake, remember."
"Yes, sir; yes, Mr. Gran, I'll try."
But he seemed to forget it immediately, for he said nothing more.
It must have been half-an-hour after this that Rathbeal touched Robert Grantham's arm impressively. The dews of death were on Billy's forehead, and his lips were moving.
"Prue, little Prue!" he murmured.
"A girl's pet name, probably," whispered Rathbeal in Robert Grantham's ear.
"Yes, Billy, yes," prompted Grantham; "who is little Prue?"
"Sweethearts we wos. Little Prue! little Prue!"
At this dying boy's mouth Fate was weaving its web; and some miles away Mr. Fox-Cordery was dreaming of the woman he loved and the friend he had ruined.
"Where does she live, Billy?"