CHAPTER XXI.
A PROMISE TO THE DYING.
Paying no further heed to the servant, and much to the surprise of thatfunctionary, Van Vernet turned his gaze back upon the picture, andlooked long and intently, shifting his position once or twice to obtaina different view. Then taking up his hat, he silently left the house, alook of mingled elation and perplexity upon his face.
"It's the same!" he thought, as he hurried away; "it's the same face, ora most wonderful resemblance. Allow for the difference made by theglazed cap, the tattoo marks and the rough dress, and it's the very sameface! It seems incredible, but I know that such impossibilities oftenexist. What is there in common between Mr. Alan Warburton, aristocrat,and a nameless sailor, with scars upon his face and blood upon hishands? The same face, certainly, and--perhaps the same delicate handsand dainty feet. It may be only a resemblance, but I'll see this AlanWarburton, and I'll solve the mystery of that Francoise hovel yet."
* * * * *
While Van Vernet thus soliloquizes over his startling discovery, we willfollow the footsteps of Richard Stanhope.
He is walking away from the more bustling portion of the city, andturning into a quiet, home-like street, pauses before a long,trim-looking building, turns a moment to gaze about him in quest ofpossible observers, and then enters.
It is a hospital, watched over by an order of noble women, andaffording every relief and comfort to the suffering ones within itswalls.
Passing the offices and long wards, he goes on until he has reached aprivate room in the rear of the building. Here coolness and quiet reign,and a calm-faced woman is sitting beside a cot, upon which a sick mantosses and mutters feverishly. It is the ex-convict who was rescued fromthe Thieves' Tavern by Stanhope, only a few nights ago.
"How is your patient?" queries the detective, approaching the bed andgazing down upon the man whom he has befriended.
"He has not long to live," replies the nurse. "I am glad you are here,sir. In his lucid moments he asks for you constantly. His delirium willpass soon, I think, and he will have a quiet interval. I hope you willremain."
"I will stay as long as possible," Stanhope says, seating himself by thebed. "But I have not much time to spare to-night."
The dying man is living his childhood over again. He mutters of rollingprairies, waving trees, sweeping storms, and pealing thunder. He laughsat the review of some pleasing scene, and then cries out in terror assome vision of horror comes before his memory.
And while he mutters, Richard Stanhope listens--at first idly, thencuriously, and at last with eager intensity, bending forward to catchevery word.
Finally he rises, and crossing the room deposits his hat upon a table,and removes his light outer coat.
"I shall stay," he says briefly. "How long will he live?"
"He cannot last until morning, the surgeon says."
"I will stay until the end."
He resumes his seat and his listening attitude. It is sunset when hiswatch begins; the evening passes away, and still the patient mutters andmoans.
It is almost midnight when his mutterings cease, and he falls into aslumber that looks like death.
At last there comes an end to the solemn stillness of the room. Thedying man murmurs brokenly, opens his eyes with the light of reason inthem once more, and recognizes his benefactor.
"You see--I was--right," he whispers, a wan smile upon his face; "I amgoing to die."
He labors a moment for breath, and then says:
"You have been so good--will--will you do one thing--more?"
"If I can."
"I want my--mother to know--I am dead. She was not always good--but shewas--my mother."
"Tell me her name, and where to find her?"
The voice of the dying man sinks lower. Stanhope bends to catch thewhispered reply, and then asks:
"Can you answer a few questions that I am anxious to put to you?"
"Y--yes."
"Now that you know yourself dying, are you willing to tell me anything Imay wish to know?"
"You are the--only man--who was ever--merciful to me," said the dyingman. "I will tell you--anything."
Turning to the nurse, Stanhope makes a sign which she understands, and,nodding a reply, she goes softly from the room.
When Richard Stanhope and the dying man are left alone, the detectivebends his head close to the pillows, and the questions asked, and theanswers given, are few and brief.
Suddenly the form upon the bed becomes convulsed, the eyes roll wildlyand then fix themselves upon Stanhope's face.
"You promise," gasps the death-stricken man, "you will tell them--"
The writhing form becomes limp and lifeless, the eyes take on a glassystare, and there is a last fluttering breath.
Richard Stanhope closes the staring eyes, and speaks his answer in theears of the dead.
"I will tell them, poor fellow, at the right time, but--before my dutyto the dead, comes a duty to the living!"