"There is a gentleman of the name of Morrison, Miss Lucy, below, who wishes to see you immediately."
"Morrison," said Lucy, thoughtfully, "it must be a mistake, Harris. You must mean he wants mamma. I know nobody of the name of Morrison."
"No, Miss Lucy," replied the butler; "he asked for you and you only, and I have heard that he was a friend and school-fellow of poor Mr. Tyrrell--Sir Charles Tyrrell, indeed, as I should now call him."
Lucy turned a little pale with agitation, but she directed the butler to show the gentleman in; and in another minute Everard Morrison was standing before her.
He was pale and somewhat haggard; but perfectly calm and composed.
"I beg pardon, Miss Effingham," he said, without sitting down, though she had pointed to a chair, "for intruding upon you in this manner, and at this moment,"--as he spoke, he turned his head over his shoulder, to see that the butler had shut the door--"but I do not know whether you are aware," he proceeded, "that I had the honour of being a schoolfellow of Sir Charles Tyrrell."
Lucy could only bow, for she was too much agitated to reply.
"I am forced to be abrupt," continued Morrison, "for there is no time to be lost. Sir Charles Tyrrell is, as you know, accused of a horrible crime. There are particular facts, which I cannot explain to you at present, which would prevent him from proving his innocence, except at the expense, and indeed utter destruction of two other persons. Under these circumstances he has judged it better to attempt to escape."
Lucy clasped her hands together, exclaiming, "Good God, has he succeeded?"
"He has, Miss Effingham," replied Everard Morrison, lowering his voice; "he has made his way out of the prison, and is now within a hundred yards of this house."