As we stood outside on the landing, her heart beating against my encircling hand, and our senses strained to listen, we heard Watts open the front door.
"Has Mr. Strange come home?" cried a voice hurriedly—that of a woman.
"Yes," said Watts.
"Can I speak to him? It is on a matter of life and death."
"Where do you come from?" asked Watts, with habitual caution.
"I come from Mr. Lennard. Oh, pray do not waste time!"
"All right, my darling; it is not from your mother," I whispered to Annabel, as I ran down.
A young woman stood at the foot of the stairs; I was at a loss to guess her condition in life. She had the face and manner of a lady, but her dress was poor and shabby.
"I have come from my father, sir—Mr. Lennard," she said in a low tone, blushing very much. "He is dangerously ill: we fear he is dying, and so does he. He bade me say that he must see you, or he cannot die in peace. Will you please be at the trouble of coming?"
One hasty word despatched to my wife, and I went out with Miss Lennard, hailing a cab, which had just set down its freight some doors higher up. "What is the matter with your father?" I questioned, as we whirled along towards Blackfriars Bridge, in accordance with her directions.