“Who lent you this book, Tom?” said she, when I returned.

“Spicer, the man whom they call Black Sam, who is now dying in the hospital.”

“Well, that’s not the name on the title-page—­it is Walter James, Tynemouth.”

“Walter James, did you say, dear?  Let me look!  Even so.”

“Why, what’s the matter, Tom?” said my sister; “you look as if you were puzzled.”

And indeed I do not doubt but I did, for it at once recalled to my mind that old Nanny’s married name was James, and that Spicer had said that his father was a sailor, and that he had died at the time that he was born, which agreed with the narrative of old Nanny.  The conclusions which I came to in a moment made me shudder.

“Well, my dear, I was surprised, if not frightened; but you don’t know why, nor can I tell you, for it’s not my secret.  Let me look at the book again.”

Here my father came in, and the conversation took a different turn, which I was not sorry for.  I wished, however, to be left to my own reflections; so I soon afterward took up my candle and retired to my room.

I turned the subject over in my mind in a hundred ways, but could not come to any conclusion as to the best method of proceeding.  At last I thought I would see Peter Anderson the next day, and take his advice.  I was out immediately after breakfast; but I could not find Anderson, so I walked to the hospital to see Spicer.  I found Anderson sitting by his bedside, but they were not then conversing.  After a short time Anderson rose, and giving a slight shake of the head, as if to inform me that he had had no success, he walked away.

“He has been trying to convert me,” said Spicer, with a grim smile.

“He has been trying, Spicer, to bring you to a sense of your condition; and is he not kind? he can have no interest but your own good.  Do you think that no one knows the sins you have committed except yourself?—­there is one eye which sees all.”

“Come, Jack, no preaching.”

“Spicer, you are here under a false name, and you think no one knows anything about you; but everything has been discovered by me; and I cannot help thinking that it has been made known providentially, and for your good.”

“Ah!” replied Spicer, “and pray what do you know?  Perhaps you can tell me all the sins I have committed.”

“No, Spicer, but perhaps I can tell you of sins which you yourself are not aware of.  But first answer me—­you know that you cannot live long, Spicer; will you acknowledge that what I state is correct, should it really be so?”

“I give you my word that if you tell me anything about me which is true, I will freely acknowledge it; so now, Mr. Fortuneteller, here’s my hand—­it may be useful, you know, in helping your discovery.”

“I do not want your hand, Spicer—­now hear me.  Is not your name James?—­and were you not born at Tynemouth?”