“And you knew not its name?” said Ada.
“Its name!—No, I cannot tell you its name! but I will tell you a dream.”
“Answer me one question,” said Ada. “The child, I heard you say, you came to London to save. Was its name Gray?”
“Gray—Gray. Who is Gray?”
“There is hope even,” sighed Ada, “in the want of confirmation of a terrible doubt. If I am the child she raves so strangely of, she knows me not by that most hateful name.”
“Will you hear my dream?” said Maud, endeavouring to rise from the cold stones.
Ada saw that blood was trickling from her head, but whether she had struck it in falling, or the man who had attempted her destruction had inflicted the wound, was doubtful. Ada, however, assisted her to her feet, and as she did so she heard the tread of the watchman as he returned slowly from his pursuit.
“He’s off,” cried the man. “Hilloa!—Ain’t the woman dead?”
“Dead!” shrieked Maud, suddenly confronting the watchman, “is Andrew Britton dead?”
“Who?”