An amazing change came over the pallid face—it was suddenly animated with keen curiosity and cynical amusement.
“Bet Chart?” he exclaimed. “And most perfect of Hebes, according to good old Lightfoot. Come hither, fair maid——”
Jean moved back rather than forward.
“What can I do for you?” she said quietly. “If you will tell me what it is you wanted Mrs. Lightfoot for—I will do it.”
He raised himself painfully on his right elbow and gave her a long, measuring, penetrating look.
“Come nearer,” he said in an authoritative voice. “You’ve nothing to be afraid of from the poor dying wretch I am now——”
She came close up to the bed; and then, looking up at her, he said in a very different tone: “Your name is not Bet Chart; you are Miss Jean Bower, of Terriford village.”
She clasped her hands together.
“It’s true!” she cried, oppressed, bewildered. “But for God’s sake don’t give me away to Mrs. Lightfoot——”
“Of course I won’t. And now tell me how is it that Dr. Maclean’s niece comes to be here, in 106, Coburg Square?” And his sunken eyes were alive with a mocking, mischievous curiosity.