“Take me where you like,” he cried. “Do with me what you like—accuse me of what you please—but, as you are men and Christians, search this house, I implore you, for a young maiden, whose name is Ada. She must be here somewhere. I entreat you to search for her—I implore you. Moreover, there are papers in the room, most probably, of yon murdered man, which are directed to Sir Francis Hartleton. Find them, and take them to him. Then do with me what you please, and in my heart I believe the kindest hand would be that which took my life.”
The accent in which these words were uttered was so despairing—so full of exquisite grief and abandonment of all hope, that even the officers, blunted as their feelings were, looked affected by what they heard.
There was a moment’s silence and then one said,—
“Bring him along at once before Sir Francis. He never minds being knocked up on real business.”
“But you will do what I ask you,” said Albert; “you will search for her I have mentioned to you?”
“We cannot,” was the reply; “we must lose no time—come on—come on.”
With a deep sigh Albert dropped his head upon his breast, and suffered himself to be led down the staircase in a state of great dejection.
When he reached the foot of the topmost flight, he summoned all his energies, and once more cried,—
“Ada, Ada!”
Echo only answered him.