"Where's the man you call Franklin Blake?"
says the girl, fixing me with a fierce look, as
she rested herself on her crutch.

"That's not a respectful way to speak of any
gentleman," I answered. "If you wish to
inquire for my lady's nephew, you will please
mention him as Mr. Franklin Blake."

She limped a step nearer to me, and looked
as if she could have eaten me alive. "Mr.
Franklin Blake!" she repeated after me.
"Murderer Franklin Blake would be a fitter
name for him."

My practice with the late Mrs. Betteredge
came in handy here. Whenever a woman tries
to put you out of temper, turn the tables, and
put her out of temper instead. They are
generally prepared for every effort you can
make in your own defence, but that. One word
does it as well as a hundred; and one word did
it with Limping Lucy. I looked her pleasantly
in the face; and I said—"Pooh!"

The girl's temper flamed out directly. She
poised herself on her sound foot, and she took
her crutch, and beat it furiously three times on
the ground. "He's a murderer! he's a
murderer! he's a murderer! He has been the death
of Rosanna Spearman!" She screamed that
answer out at the top of her voice. One or
two of the people at work in the grounds near
us looked up—saw it was Limping Lucy—knew
what to expect from that quarter—and looked
away again.

"He has been the death of Rosanna Spearman?"
I repeated. "What makes you say that,
Lucy?"

"What do you care? What does any man
care? Oh! if she had only thought of the men
as I think, she might have been living now!"

"She always thought kindly of me, poor
soul," I said; "and, to the best of my ability,
I always tried to act kindly by her."

I spoke those words in as comforting a
manner as I could. The truth is, I hadn't the
heart to irritate the girl by another of my smart
replies. I had only noticed her temper at first.
I noticed her wretchedness now—and wretchedness
is not uncommonly insolent, you will find,
in humble life. My answer melted Limping
Lucy. She bent her head down, and laid it on
the top of her crutch.

"I loved her," the girl said softly. "She had
lived a miserable life, Mr. Betteredge—vile
people had ill treated her and led her wrong—
and it hadn't spoilt her sweet temper. She was
an angel. She might have been happy with
me. I had a plan for our going to London
together like sisters, and living by our needles.
That man came here, and spoilt it all. He
bewitched her. Don't tell me he didn't mean it,
and didn't know it. He ought to have known
it. He ought to have taken pity on her. 'I
can't live without him—and, oh, Lucy, he never
even looks at me.' That's what she said. Cruel,
cruel, cruel. I said, 'No man is worth fretting
for in that way.' And she said, 'There are men
worth dying for, Lucy, and he is one of them.'
I had saved up a little money. I had settled
things with father and mother. I meant to
take her away from the mortification she was
suffering here. We should have had a little
lodging in London, and lived together like
sisters. She had a good education, sir, as you
know, and she wrote a good hand. She was
quick at her needle. I have a good education,
and I write a good hand. I am not as quick at
my needle as she was—but I could have done.
We might have got our living nicely. And,
oh! what happens this morning? what
happens this morning? Her letter comes, and tells
me she has done with the burden of her life.
Her letter comes, and bids me good-bye for
ever. Where is he?" cries the girl, lifting
her head from the crutch, and flaming out
again through her tears. "Where's this gentleman
that I mustn't speak of, except with
respect ? Ha, Mr. Betteredge, the day is not
far off when the poor will rise against the rich.
I pray Heaven they may begin with him. I pray
Heaven they may begin with him."

Here was another of your average good
Christians, and here was the usual break-down,
consequent on that same average Christianity
being pushed too far! The parson himself
(though I own this is saying a great deal)
could hardly have lectured the girl in the state
she was in now. All I ventured to do was to
keep her to the point—in the hope of something
turning up which might be worth hearing.

"What do you want with Mr. Franklin
Blake?" I asked.

"I want to see him."

"For anything particular?"

"I have got a letter to give him."

"From Rosanna Spearman?"

"Yes."

"Sent to you in your own letter?"

"Yes."

Was the darkness going to lift? Were all the
discoveries that I was dying to make, coming
and offering themselves to me of their own
accord? I was obliged to wait a moment.
Sergeant Cuff had left his infection behind him.
Certain signs and tokens, personal to myself,
warned me that the detective fever was
beginning to set in again.

"You can't see Mr. Franklin," I said.

"I must, and will, see him."

"He went to London last night."

Limping Lucy looked me hard in the face,
and saw that I was speaking the truth. Without
a word more, she turned about again
instantly towards Cobb's Hole.

"Stop!" I said. "I expect news of Mr.
Franklin Blake to-morrow. Give me your letter,
and I'll send it on to him by the post."

Limping Lucy steadied herself on her crutch,
and looked back at me over her shoulder.

"I am to give it from my hands into his
hands," she said. "And I am to give it to him
in no other way."

"Shall I write, and tell him what you have
said?"

"Tell him I hate him. And you will tell him
the truth."