stringed instruments—and waves, dark waves—no, no! Maurice, Maurice! it is in the next room!—it is some one sobbing!—it is Nina!—Nina!"
He uttered a loud shriek and struggled wildly to raise himself; but Maurice, with gentle pressure and persuasive words, got him to lie still.
"It is past twelve now, Linn; and you see there has been nothing. We must wait; and some day we will find out all about Nina for you. Of course you would like to know about your old companion. Oh, we'll find her, rest assured!"
Lionel had turned away, and was lying moaning and muttering to himself. The only phrase his companion could make out was something about "a wide, wide sea—and all dark."
But Maurice, finding him now comparatively quiet, stealthily put back the various trinkets into the box and carried it into the other room. And then, hearing no further sound, he remained there—remained until the nurse came down to take his place.
He told her what had occurred; but she was familiar with these things, and doubtless knew much better than himself how to deal with such emergencies. At the street-door he paused to light his pipe—his first smoke that day, and surely well-earned. Then he went away through the dark thoroughfares down to Westminster, not without much pity and sadness in his mind, also perhaps with some curious speculations—as to the lot of poor, luckless mortals, their errors and redeeming virtues, and the vagrant and cruel buffetings of fate.
CHAPTER XXIV.
FRIENDS IN NEED.
On the Monday morning matters were so serious that Mangan telegraphed down to Winstead; but the old doctor and his wife and Francie were already on their way to town. When they arrived in Piccadilly, and went into the sick-room, Lionel did not know them; most likely he merely confused them with the crowding phantoms of his brain. He was now in a high state of fever, but the delirium was not violent; he lay murmuring and moaning, and it was only chance phrases they could catch—about