“I am dying,” the low voice whispered hoarsely in his ear.  “Can’t you see it for yourself?  I shall never get better; it might be a year or two, it may be weeks.  But I want to see her again and make sure.  Yes, I love her!  There is no sense in denying it.  But it is all on my side, and I am dying, and she has married again!  What harm can it do anybody if I see her once more?”

The sunken eyes were filled with tears.  There were more tears in the hollow voice.  Langholm was deeply touched.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “I will let her know.  No, no, not that, of course!  But I will write to her at once—­to-night!  Will that not do?”

Severino thanked him, with a heavy sigh.  “Oh, don’t get down,” he added, as Langholm rose.  “I won’t talk about her any more.”

“I am staying in this street,” explained Langholm, guardedly.

“And these are my lodgings,” rejoined the other, pulling a letter from his pocket, and handing the envelope to Langholm.  “Let me hear from you, for pity’s sake, as soon as you hear from her!”

Langholm sauntered on the pavement until the omnibus which he had left was no longer distinguishable from the general traffic of the thoroughfare.  The address on the envelope was that of the lodging-house at which he was to have called that night.  He was glad now that his luck had not left him to find Severino for himself; the sense of fatuity would have been even keener than it was.  In a way he now felt drawn to the poor, frank boy who had so lately been the object of his unjust and unfounded suspicions.  There was a new light in which to think of him, a new bond between them, a new spring of sympathy or jealousy, if not of both.  But Langholm was not in London to show sympathy or friendship for any man.  He was in London simply and solely upon his own great quest, in which no man must interrupt him.  That was why he had been so guarded about his whereabouts—­though not guarded enough—­and why he watched the omnibus out of sight before entering his hotel.  The old Londoner had forgotten how few places there are at which one can stay in Sloane Street.

A bad twenty-four hours was in store for him.

They began well enough with the unexpected discovery that an eminent authority on crime and criminals, who had been a good friend to Langholm in his London days, was still in town.  The novelist went round to his house that night, chiefly because it was not ten minutes’ walk from the Cadogan Hotel, and with little hope of finding anybody at home.  Yet there was his friend, with the midnight lamp just lighted, and so kind a welcome that Langholm confided in him on the spot.  And the man who knew all the detectives in London did not laugh at the latest recruit to their ranks; but smile he did.

“I’ll tell you what I might do,” he said at length.  “I might give you a card that should get you into the Black Museum at New Scotland Yard, where they would show you any relics they may have kept of the Minchin murder; only don’t say why you want to see them.  Every man you see there will be a detective; you may come across the very fellows who got up the case; if so, they may tell you what they think of it, and you should be able to find out whether they’re trying again.  Here you are, Langholm, and I wish you luck.  Doing anything to-morrow night?”