“Yes, the most violent. There, within my hearing, he had an altercation with a poor mad wanderer, from whom I heard his name.”
“His name, Ada?—It may afford some clue.”
“It may. She called him Andrew Britton.”
“Andrew Britton!—I will not forget.”
“He attempted her murder. My screams, I believe, saved her life.”
“And their discourse, Ada?—What said they?”
“Their speech was of some child to whom great wrong had been done years since. Oh, Albert, my heart told me it was of me they spoke.”
“Could you learn nothing of the woman?”
“Alas! No. Her wits were gone. She wandered strangely in her speech; madness had taken possession of her, and she, who seemed to know the mystery which envelopes me, could not shape her thoughts to tell me.”
“Heaven, Ada, will work out your deliverance in its own good time from this tangled web of guilt and mystery that is cast around you. I still think, as I thought before, that the packet which Gray keeps so carefully concealed would unravel all.”