The woman came in presently, bustling and out of breath. She had found a
very trustworthy person, recommended by Mr. Mew's assistant--a person who
would come that evening without fail.
"It was all the way up at Islington, sir, and I paid the cabman
three-and-six altogether, which he said it were his fare. And how has the
poor dear been while I was away?" asked Mrs. Pratt, with her head on one
side and an air of extreme solicitude.
"Very much as you see him now. He has mentioned a name once or twice, the
name of Marian. Have you ever heard that?"
"I should say I have, sir, times and often since he's been ill. 'Marian,
why don't you come to me?' so pitiful; and then, 'Lost, lost!' in such a
awful wild way. I think it must be some favourite sister, sir, or a young
lady as he has kep' company with."
"Marian!" cried the voice from the bed, as if their cautious talk had
penetrated to that dim brain. "Marian! O no, no; she is gone; I have lost
her! Well, I wished it; I wanted my freedom."
Gilbert started, and stood transfixed, looking intently at the
unconscious speaker. Yes, here was the clue to the mystery. John Saltram
had grown tired of his stolen bride--had sighed for his freedom. Who
should say that he had not taken some iniquitous means to rid himself of
the tie that had grown troublesome to him?
Gilbert Fenton remembered Ellen Carley's suspicions.
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