"I don't understand you. I don't know what
you mean," she said. " You must be mad."

"Oh, you'll know what I mean soon enough.
I'm strong and you're weak, and you'll know
what it is to have a woman against you that's
strong enough, and resolute enough, and obstinate
enough, if you like it better, to go through
anything. We wasn't given to liking everybody,
neither she nor I, but we did care for each other,
I tell you. Oh, poor dear, poor dear," cried the
mourner, throwing herself down by the bed and
bursting into tears. "I'm all alone now, and
I've nobody to care for in the world."

It was a dreadful sight, this anger and sorrow
mingled together, to which the poor wretch gave
way. Gabrielle felt that this was no time to
bandy words with the woman, or to take notice
of expressions uttered in the madness of a first
sorrow. What had been said was incomprehensible,
but this was not the time to ask for an
explanation. So she took the opportunity of
this burst of grief to steal noiselessly out of the
room, and going down stairs into the little room
on the ground floor, sat there with the door open
listening for what might come next.

She had not sat so long, before she heard the
house door opened swiftly from without, and
then the sound of footsteps passing hastily along
the passage and up the stairs.

She stole out just in time to see her husband
and a strange gentleman ascending the staircase.

The strange gentleman was the doctor.

CHAPTER XIX. GABRIELLE'S DANGER.

THE doctor, in company with Mr. Penmore,
went up-stairs and entered the room where his
services were required, with a soft professional
tread. Jane Cantanker was still there, seated
by the side of the bed. She had put the room in
some sort of order and partly closed the shutters,
and then she had sat down to wait and watch.

Doctor Giles, physician by appointment to the
police force, was a gentleman of skill and
penetration. Accustomed by the very nature of his
function to deal with exceptional cases, accustomed
to see death in its more violent and sudden
phases. One glance at the form which lay there
upon the bed, told him that his utmost skill
could be of no service here, and that the duty
which he had to perform was to the dead, and
not to the living. He went, however, through
the accustomed formalities. He felt for the
pulse which beat no longer, he listened for the
action of the heart which had ceased to palpitate.
He lifted the eyelid which the woman who stood
beside him had piously closed, and he placed a
small mirror before the mouth and nostrils, and
scrutinised it eagerly for any trace of mist or
vapour which might have come upon its polished
surface. There was no such thing. This
formula gone through, Dr. Giles, with mechanical
orderliness, hung up the looking-glass on its
nail, and, drawing Penmore aside into one of the
windows, spoke thus:

"It is all over."

Gilbert bowed his head. "So I feared," he
answered.

"Have you any idea as to the cause of death?"
asked the doctor.

"None whatever."

"That must be looked into later," said Dr.
Giles.

"By all means," replied Gilbert. " How long
do you think she has been dead?"

The doctor went back to the bedside, and
Gilbert followed him.

"There is still," said the doctor, " some slight
degree of warmth underneath the body and on
the crown of the head, always the last place
which the vital heat deserts. She has not been
dead very long."

These words seemed to put the fact of the
death before the dead lady's servant with new
reality, and she sobbed with a revived passionateness.

"Who is this?" whispered the doctor to
Gilbert.

"She was the lady's servant," answered
Penmore, " and was, I believe, much attached to her
mistress."

Doctor Giles waited till the woman's grief
had in a measure subsided, and then he spoke
to her:

"You were in the service of the deceased
lady?"

"Yes, sir," sobbed the woman.

"Were you with her at the time of her
death?"

"No, sir. Poor dear—I wish I had been!
When I came in this morning she was lying
quite still, and almost as you see her now, and
I let her be awhile, thinking she must have had
a bad night, and was making up for it now."

"Was she in the habit of having bad nights?"
asked the doctor.

"Sometimes, sir, she was very fitful-like about
her sleep; and, sometimes, she'd do nothing but
sleep, and doze even in the daytime, as well as
the night; and, at other times, she'd be
constantly restless and wakeful."

"And, on this particular morning, you thought
she'd passed one of these more wakeful nights?"
inquired Doctor Giles.

"Yes, sir; and, as I said, I let her be a bit;
and then I looked towards her again, and some-
thing scared me about the look of her face, and
the jaw dropped open, that wasn't her habit;
and then I went up nearer, and found—found
her as you see."

"And you have no knowledge of any illness
under which this lady may have been suftering,
and which might have caused her death?" asked
the doctor.

"No, sir, I have not."

"Had she any regular medical attendant?"

"No, sir; that is to say, not in London. Her
last medical attendant was Doctor Hood, of
Woodford."

Doctor Giles made a note of the name and
address. He took out his card at the same time,