a sovereign will do, if Linn will give another; and Linn has always been very good to me in this way, though for some time back I have been ashamed to take anything from him.  The doctor grumbles, but gives me five shillings whenever I ask him; Auntie will give me the same; and the rest I can get from our friends and acquaintances about here.  Don’t be impatient with me, dear Maurice; and some day I will take you down to Whitechapel and show you the very prettiest sight in the whole world—­and that is Sister Alexandra with her fifty children....”

Maurice Mangan read this passage as he was driving in a hansom along Pall Mall, on his way to call on Lionel.  The previous portion of the letter, which more intimately concerned herself and himself, he had read several times over before coming out, studying every phrase of it as if it were an individual treasure, and trying to listen for the sound of her voice in every sentence.  And as for this more practical matter, why, although he was rather a poor man, he thought he was not going to allow Frances to wander about in search of grudging shillings and half-crowns so long as he himself could come to her aid; so at the foot of St. James Street he stopped the hansom, went into the telegraph-office, and sent off the following message:  “Five pounds will reach you to-morrow morning.  You cannot refuse my first gift in our new relationship.—­Maurice.”  And thereafter he went on to Piccadilly—­feeling richer, indeed, rather than poorer.

When he rang the bell at Lionel’s lodgings, it was with no very clear idea of the message or counsel he was bringing with him; but the news he now received put all these things out of his head.  The house-porter appeared, looking somewhat concerned.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Moore is up-stairs; but I’m afraid he’s very unwell.”

“What is the matter?” Maurice asked, instantly.

“He must have got wet coming home last night, sir; and he has caught a bad cold.  I’ve just been for Dr. Whitsen, and he will be here at twelve.”

“But Dr. Whitsen is a throat doctor.”

“Yes, sir; but it is always his throat Mr. Moore is most anxious about; and when he found himself husky this morning, he would take nothing but a raw egg beaten up and a little port-wine negus; and now he won’t speak—­he will only write on a piece of paper.  He is saving himself for the theatre to-night, sir, I think that is it; but would you like to go up and see him?”

“Oh, yes, I will go up and see him,” Mangan said; and without more ado he ascended the stairs and made his way into Lionel’s bedroom.

He found his friend under a perfect mountain of clothes that had been heaped upon him; and certainly he was not shivering now—­on the contrary, his face was flushed and hot, and his eyes singularly bright and restless.  As soon as Lionel saw who this new-comer was, he made a sign that a block of paper and a pencil lying on the table should be brought to him; and, turning slightly, he put the paper on the pillow and wrote: