To monsieur they seemed a palace. Morton nodded assent.
"And will monsieur sleep for a short time?"
"Yes."
"The bed is well aired. The rooms have only been vacant three days since. Can I get you anything till your luggage arrives?"
"No."
The woman left him. He threw off his clothes—flung himself on the bed— and did not wake till noon.
When his eyes unclosed—when they rested on that calm chamber, with its air of health, and cleanliness, and comfort, it was long before he could convince himself that he was yet awake. He missed the loud, deep voice of Gawtrey—the smoke of the dead man's meerschaum—the gloomy garret— the distained walls—the stealthy whisper of the loathed Birnie; slowly the life led and the life gone within the last twelve hours grew upon his struggling memory. He groaned, and turned uneasily round, when the door slightly opened, and he sprung up fiercely,—
"Who is there?"
"It is only I, sir," answered Madame Dufour. "I have been in three times to see if you were stirring. There is a letter I believe for you, sir; though there is no name to it," and she laid the letter on the chair beside him. Did it come from her—the saving angel? He seized it. The cover was blank; it was sealed with a small device, as of a ring seal. He tore it open, and found four billets de banque for 1,000 francs each, —a sum equivalent in our money to about L160.
"Who sent this, the—the lady from whom I brought the note?"