All the intellect that Benedict could exercise was summoned to comprehend this injunction.  He nodded his head; he laid it up in his memory.  Hope had touched him, and he had won at least a degree of momentary strength and steadiness from her gracious finger.

“Now jest lay down an’ rest, an’ keep your thoughts to yerself till I come agin.  Don’t tell nobody I’ve be’n here, and don’t ask leave of nobody.  I’ll settle with the old boss if he makes any sort of a row; and ye know when Jim Fenton says he’ll stand between ye and all harm he means it, an’ nothin’ else.”

“Yes, Jim.”

“An’ when I come here—­most likely in the night—­I’ll bring a robe to put on ye, and we’ll go out still.”

“Yes, Jim.”

“Sure you understand?”

“Yes, Jim.”

“Well, good-bye.  Give us your hand.  Here’s hopin’.”

Benedict held himself up by the slats of the door, while Jim went along to rejoin the Doctor.  Outside of this door was still a solid one, which had been thrown wide open in the morning for the purpose of admitting the air.  In this door Jim discovered a key, which he quietly placed in his pocket, and which he judged, by its size, was fitted to the lock of the inner as well as the outer door.  He had already discovered that the door by which he entered the building was bolted upon the outside, the keeper doubtless supposing that no one would wish to enter so foul a place, and trusting thus to keep the inmates in durance.

“Well, Doctor,” said Jim, “this sort o’ thing is too many for me.  I gi’en it up.  It’s very interestin’, I s’pose, but my head begins to spin, an’ it seems to me it’s gettin’ out of order.  Do ye see my har, Doctor?” said he, exposing the heavy shock that crowned his head.

“Yes, I see it,” replied the Doctor tartly.  He thought he had shaken off his unpleasant visitor, and his return disturbed him.

“Well, Doctor, that has all riz sence I come in here.”

“Are you sure?” inquired the Doctor, mollified in the presence of a fact that might prove to be of scientific interest.

“I’d jest combed it when you come this mornin’.  D’ye ever see anythin’ like that?  How am I goin’ to git it down?”

“Very singular,” said the Doctor.

“Yes, an’ look here!  D’ye see the har on the back o’ my hand?  That stands up jest the same.  Why, Doctor, I feel like a hedgehog!  What am I goin’ to do?”

“Why, this is really very interesting!” said the Doctor, taking out his note-book.  “What is your name?”

“Jim Fenton.”

“Age?”

“Thirty or forty—­somewhere along there.”

“H’m!” exclaimed the Doctor, writing out the whole reply.  “Occupation?”

“M.D., three C’s, double X., two I’s.”

“H’m!  What do you do?”

“Trap, mostly.”

“Religious?”

“When I’m skeered.”

“Nativity?”

“Which?”