“Oh, no; it is nothing of the kind, I am glad to say.”

“Glad to say,” muttered the old man, the eager, expectant look disappearing from his face, giving place to one of disappointment—­“glad to say; why there hasn’t been an accident to-day, and here you’ve gone and rung the bell, and brought me here to the door for nothing.  What do you want then?”

“I wish to inquire after a person who is here.”

“What’s his number?” gruffly inquired he.

“That I cannot tell,” answered she; “his name is McCloskey.”

“I don’t know anything about him.  Couldn’t tell who he is unless I go all over the books to-night.  We don’t know people by their names here; come in the morning—­ten o’clock, and don’t never ring that bell again,” concluded he, sharply, “unless you want a stretcher:  ringing the bell, and no accident;” and grumbling at being disturbed for nothing, he abruptly closed the door in Lizzie’s face.

Anxious and discomfited, she wandered back to her hotel; and after drinking a weak cup of tea, locked her room-door, and retired to bed.  There she lay, tossing from side to side—­she could not sleep—­her anxiety respecting her father’s safety; her fears, lest in the delirium of fever McCloskey should discover their secret, kept her awake far into the night, and the city clocks struck two ere she fell asleep.

When she awoke in the morning the sun was shining brightly into her room; for a few moments she could not realize where she was; but the events of the past night soon came freshly to her; looking at her watch, she remembered that she was to go to the hospital at ten, and it was already half-past nine; her wakefulness the previous night having caused her to sleep much later than her usual hour.

Dressing herself in haste, she hurried down to breakfast; and after having eaten a slight meal, ordered a carriage, and drove to the hospital.

The janitor was in his accustomed seat, and nodded smilingly to her as she entered.  He beckoned her to him, and whispered, “I inquired about him.  McCloskey, fever-ward, No. 21, died this morning at two o’clock and forty minutes.”

“Dead!” echoed Lizzie, with a start of horror.

“Yes, dead,” repeated he, with a complacent look; “any relation of yours—­want an order for the body?”

Lizzie was so astounded by this intelligence, that she could not reply; and the old man continued mysteriously.  “Came to before he died—­wish he hadn’t—­put me to a deal of trouble—­sent for a magistrate—­then for a minister—­had something on his mind—­couldn’t die without telling it, you know; then there was oaths, depositions—­so much trouble.  Are you his relation—­want an order for the body?”

“Oaths! magistrate!—­a confession no doubt,” thought Lizzie; her limbs trembled; she was so overcome with terror that she could scarcely stand; clinging to the railing of the desk by which she was standing for support, she asked, hesitatingly, “He had something to confess then?”