“He did!” interrupted Lizzie, with a gesture of alarm, and laying her hand upon her heart, which beat fearfully—­“did he mention any name?”

The woman did not stop to answer this question, but proceeded as if she had not been interrupted.  “He was always going on about two orphans and a will, and he used to curse and swear awfully about being obliged to keep something hid.  It was dreadful to listen to—­it would almost make your hair stand on end to hear him.”

“And he never mentioned names?” said Lizzie inquiringly.

“No, that was so strange; he never mentioned no names—­never.  He used to rave a great deal about two orphans and a will, and he would ransack the bed, and pull up the sheets, and look under the pillows, as if he thought it was there.  Oh, he acted very strange, but never mentioned no names.  I used to think he had something in his trunk, he was so very special about it.  He was better the day they took him off; and the trunk went with him—­he would have it; but since then he’s had a dreadful relapse, and there’s no knowin’ whether he is alive or dead.”

“I must go to the hospital,” said Lizzie, rising from her seat, and greatly relieved to learn that nothing of importance had fallen from McCloskey during his delirium.  “I shall go there as quickly as I can,” she observed, walking to the door.

“You’ll not see him to-night if you do,” rejoined the woman.  “Are you a relation?”

“Oh, no,” answered Lizzie; “my father is an acquaintance of his.  I learned that he was ill, and came to inquire after him.”

Had the woman not been very indifferent or unobservant, she would have noticed the striking difference between the manner and appearance of Lizzie Stevens and the class who generally came to see McCloskey.  She did not, however, appear to observe it, nor did she manifest any curiosity greater than that evidenced by her inquiring if he was a relative.

Lizzie walked with a lonely feeling through the quiet streets until she arrived at the porter’s lodge of the hospital.  She pulled the bell with trembling hands, and the door was opened by the little bald-headed man whose loquacity was once (the reader will remember) so painful to Mrs. Ellis.  There was no perceptible change in his appearance, and he manifestly took as warm an interest in frightful accidents as ever.  “What is it—­what is it?” he asked eagerly, as Lizzie’s pale face became visible in the bright light that shone from the inner office.  “Do you want a stretcher?”

The rapidity with which he asked these questions, and his eager manner, quite startled her, and she was for a moment unable to tell her errand.

“Speak up, girl—­speak up!  Do you want a stretcher—­is it burnt or run over.  Can’t you speak, eh?”

It now flashed upon Lizzie that the venerable janitor was labouring under the impression that she had come to make application for the admission of a patient, and she quickly answered—­