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<h3>Chapter Twenty Seven.</h3> <h4>An Encounter.</h4> One swift glance, and then, without noticing Artis, Lydia glided into the room. She had seen her hope crushed, and that she must never dream again of that happy future. She had not slept, but she had left her post, and while she had been absent another had stolen that last hope. For, after lying sleeping calmly and peacefully for an hour, Capel heaved a long sigh, and at last he opened his eyes, in a quiet, dreamy way, gazing at, but apparently not seeing, Katrine, as she knelt there in the light cast by the window. Then she saw a look of intelligence come into his face, and he spoke in a quiet and eager, though feeble tone. “What is it? Why—why am I here? Don’t—don’t speak. Yes, I know. Oh, Katrine, my love, my love!” He raised his feeble arms, till they clasped the beautiful neck as she bent down over him, and her head rested upon his pillow, side by side with his; her soft dark hair half hid his pale cheek, and he was whispering feebly his words of gratitude, as Lydia slowly advanced into the room, and, unnoticed by either, she laid her soft, white hand upon Katrine’s shoulder, gripping it with a nervous force of which she herself was ignorant. Katrine started up, flushed, her eyes sparkling with light, and a look of triumph coming into her face, as she saw who was there. “Mr Capel’s condition will not permit of this excitement,” said Lydia, in a cold, harsh voice. “Doctor Heston’s orders were that he should be kept quiet.” That afternoon, when Mr Girtle entered the library, he found a plainly-dressed man awaiting him—a man who, save that he gave the idea of having once been a soldier, might have passed for anything, from a publican to an idler whose wife let lodgings, and made it unnecessary for him to toil or spin. “Morning, sir. You had my card, I see. I’ve called about the attempt made here the other night.” “Attempt?” “Yes, sir; the burglary.” “How did you know there was an attempt?” “Oh, we get to know a little, sir. We’re a body of incompetent men that every one abuses, but we find out a few things a year.” “You heard of this, then?” “Yes, sir, and we were a bit surprised that you didn’t communicate with us. Seems strange, sir.” “Strange, yes, my man, but have we not had horrors enough?” “Yes, sir, but—” “Well,” said Mr Girtle impatiently, “you have heard of it, then? What do you wish to do?” “See the place, sir. Who is it that nearly killed that poor fellow?” “How did you know that some one did?” Mr Girtle’s visitor laughed a quiet little laugh. “Oh, we know, sir. He’s horribly bad.” “No; decidedly better.” “No, sir. I was at the hospital this morning, and they don’t think he’ll live the day. He has let it all out.” “Look here, my man, we are confusing matters,” said Mr Girtle. “Why, you’ve got a wounded man here?” “Yes. There, my good fellow, I suppose you must know all, now.” “I suppose we must, sir,” said the officer, with a grim smile. “Strange that you should so soon have another trouble here.” “But you have not told me your informant.” “Oh, there’s no secret about it, sir. Servant chap went to the bad, and lost his character. Old friend of your footman here who was killed. He picks up with a couple of regular cracksmen, and tells all he knows about the house, and they put up the job.” “Yes, yes. I see. Well?” “They get in, and catch a Tartar, for this chap was cut down by some one here, and his mates got him away to a wretched hole, where the people were so frightened that they gave information to the police that a man was dying on their premises. Police took him to the hospital, and when he found out how bad he was, he made a clean breast of it all. That’s it, sir. Plain as A, B, C.” Mr Girtle sat looking at the officer, curiously. “Do you think,” he said at last, “that these men committed the other robbery?” The detective’s eyes twinkled, but not a muscle moved. “I should think it about certain, sir.” “Have you got the man’s companions?” “Yes, sir, both of them, safe enough.” “Then as this man confessed one thing, I dare say he will the other. He is dying, you say?” “Yes, sir, no doubt about it; not so much from the sword cut, as from bad health—drink, and the like.” “Then he must be seen to-day—at once, man. We may get to know from him where they have disposed of the treasure.—Such a large sum.” “Yes, sir,” the officer, quietly, taking out a note-book. “Now, don’t you think, sir, you being a solicitor, it would have been better to let us do our work, and you do yours?” “What do you mean, sir?” “Only this, sir, that here’s another thing. You’ve had a tremendous robbery here before, and we’ve known nothing about it till this minute, when you let it all out.” Mr Girtle gave his knee an impatient blow. “Yes, sir, you let it out. When did it happen?” “At the time of that terrible affair in the house. You remember?” “Yes, sir, I took a good deal of notice of it at the time, sir; but I had nothing to do with the case. So a lot of money was taken, then?” Mr Girtle nodded. “I am not at liberty to say more. Mr Capel would not have the search made.” “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll give you another look in. Perhaps, to-morrow, you’ll let me go over the place.” He went away hurriedly, and straight off to the hospital, where he had a long interview with the sick man, obtaining all the information from him that he could, before compelled by the poor wretch’s weakness to cease the inquisition. “A tremendous big sum, eh?” said the officer, to himself. “I should like to have the finding of that. They might be a bit generous to a man.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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