“‘Francis,’ she said, as she shut the door, ‘what is this? Has my husband told you anything?’
“‘All,’ I replied. ‘He has recounted to me some strange words uttered by you in your sleep, from which he infers that you poisoned my lady Lillah.’
“‘Repeat them—repeat them,’ she said hurriedly.
“I did so, and when I mentioned the name Grierson, she seemed to brighten a little. O how she hung upon my words!
“‘Francis,’ she said, ‘I may be saved. You may help me. Some nights ago I was occupied in reading the history of Jane Grierson—a little pamphlet which you will find in the drawer of the escritoire, in the dressing-room. There is the key. That story is the story I had recounted in my sleep. Go get the book, and bring it to me. That will save me, and nothing but that will save me.’
“‘God be praised,’ I ejaculated, and then hurried with all speed to get the book. I searched the escritoire; it was not there. I examined other drawers with no better success. At length I returned to my lady, and reported my failure. Without saying a word she hurried away from me, rushed along the lobby, and entered the parlour opening into the dressing-room. Not doubting her word, and agitated by the hope of all being thus satisfactorily explained when the book should be got, I flew to my master’s room through the door from the passage.
“‘It is all explainable,’ I cried, as I entered.
“‘Indeed!’ answered Mr. Bernard satirically.
“‘My lady was some nights ago reading the story of Jane Grierson,’ said I, ‘and her sleep-walking conversation was only a repetition of the story.’
“‘Grierson, Grierson!’ cried my master, as he rose frantically, and placed his hand on his forehead. ‘Yes, yes! she mentioned the word. I have never thought of that. Yes! yes! show me that book, and I shall be satisfied.’