“My husband—­Ferdy—­Mr. Wickersham.  I am the girl you married that night to Ferdy Wickersham.  Don’t you remember?  You will bring him back to me?  I know he would come if he knew.”

The effect that her words, and even more her earnestness, produced was remarkable.  Mrs. Lancaster stood in speechless astonishment.

Mr. Rimmon for a moment turned ashy pale.  Then he recovered himself.

“She is quite mad,” he said in a low tone to Mrs. Lancaster.  “I think we had better go.  She should be removed to an asylum.”

But Mrs. Lancaster could not go.  Just then the woman stretched out her arms to her.

“You will help me?  You are a lady.  I loved him so.  I gave up all for him.  He married me.  Didn’t you marry us, sir?  Say you did.  Mr. Plume lost the paper, but you will give me another, won’t you?”

The commiseration in Mr. Rimmon’s pale face grew deeper and deeper.  He rolled his eyes and shook his head sadly.

“Quite mad—­quite mad,” he said in an undertone.  And, indeed, the next moment it appeared but too true, for with a laugh the poor creature began a babble of her child and its beauty.  “Just like its father.  Dark eyes and brown hair.  Won’t he be glad to see it when he comes?  Have you children?” she suddenly asked Mrs. Lancaster.

“No.”  She shook her head.

Then a strange thing happened.

“I am so sorry for you,” the poor woman said.  And the next second she added:  “I want to show mine to Alice Yorke.  She is the only lady I know in New York.  I used to know her when I was a young girl, and I used to be jealous of her, because I thought Ferdy was in love with her.  But he was not, never a bit.”

“Come away,” said Mr. Rimmon to Mrs. Lancaster.  “She is crazy and may become violent.”

But he was too late; the whole truth was dawning on Mrs. Lancaster.  A faint likeness had come to her, a memory of a far-back time.  She ignored him, and stepped closer to the bed.

“What is your name?” she asked in a kind voice, bending toward the woman and taking her hand.

“Euphronia Tripper; but I am now Mrs. Wickersham.  He married us.”  She turned her deep eyes on Mr. Rimmon.  At sight of him a change came over her face.

“Where is my husband?” she demanded.  “I wrote to you to bring him.  Won’t you bring him?”

“Quite mad—­quite mad!” repeated Mr. Rimmon, shaking his head solemnly, and turning his gaze on Mrs. Lancaster.  But he saw his peril.  Mrs. Lancaster took no notice of him.  She began to talk to the woman at the door, and gave her a few directions, together with some money.  Then she advanced once more to the bed.

“I want to make you comfortable.  I will send some one to take care of you.”  She shook hands with her softly, pulled down her veil, and then, half turning to Mr. Rimmon, said quietly, “I am ready.”

As they stepped into the street, Mr. Rimmon observed at a little distance a man who had something familiar about him, but the next second he passed out of sight.