“You mean he’s dying?”

“My dear,” said the old man, blinking at her through sudden tears, “that’s what the doctors say.”  Here he loosed one hand to rub at each bright eye with a bony knuckle.  “An’ ‘im so young—­so game an’ strong—­three days ago.”

“How—­did it—­happen?” she questioned, her voice low and steady.

“It was Fate!” said the old man, taking her hand again.  “Three days ago Fate (the perisher) sends him a telegram—­two on ’em—­tellin’ ’im to meet you in a wood an’ signed with—­with your name, both on ’em—­”

At this she cried out and would have risen, but his kindly clasp checked her.

“I—­sent no telegram!” she whispered.

“Me an’ Joe an’ the Spider know that now, miss.  But anyway, to this ’ere wood the Guv do ‘aste away, an’ in this wood Fate’s a-layin’ for ’im wir a gun, an’ down goes the pore Guv wi’ a perishin’ bullet in ’is gizzard.  An’ there Joe finds ‘im, an’ ’ome Joe brings ’im in the car, an’ Joe an’ me an’ the Spider ‘ushes things up.  An’ now in bed lays the Guv with nurses an’ doctors ’anging over ‘im—­a-callin’ for you—­I mean the Guv, d’ ye see?  So now for you I’ve come.  I’ve brought Joe an’ the car for you—­Joe’s across wi’ Mrs. Trapes, an’ the car’s below—­both waitin’.  So you’ll come t’ th’ pore young Guv, miss, won’t ye, lady?”

“Have you—­any idea—­who—­did it?” she questioned, speaking as with an effort.

“We got our suspicions, ho, yus!” the Old Un nodded.  “Joe’s got a wonnerful gift o’ suspicion—­oh, a rare ’ead ‘as my lad Joe.  Joe an’ the Spider’s on the track, an’ they’re goin’ to track Fate to doom, ma’am—­to perishin’ doom!  Y’ see,” here the old man leaned suddenly nearer, “y’ see, Joe’s found a cloo!”

“A clew!  Yes—­yes!” she whispered breathlessly, moistening lips suddenly dry, and conscious that Spike’s lax form had stiffened to painful alertness.

“Well, ma’am, Joe an’ the Spider’s been a-seekin’ an’ a-searchin’ of that there wood, an’ they found,” here the Old Un leaned nearer yet and whispered harshly, “they found—­a coat button!  Lorgorramighty!” he exclaimed suddenly, pointing a trembling bony finger, “what’s took th’ lad—­look!”

Spike had risen and now stood, breathing loudly, one hand clenched upon his breast, and turning swiftly, took a stumbling pace toward the open window, tripped, and fell prone upon his face.

“Oh, poor lad, poor lad!” cried the Old Un, rising hastily.  “Fate’s been an’ ketched him one too—­a fair knock-out!  Leave him to me, miss, I’ll bring ‘im round—­bitin’ ’is years is good, or vinegar on a sponge—­leave ‘im to a old fightin’ man—­”

“No!” cried Hermione passionately, “no, I say.  Leave him to me!” Quelled by something in her tone and manner, the old man sank back in his chair, while she, kneeling beside Spike, lifted him in her strong young arms so that he was hidden from the Old Un’s bright, piercing eyes.  Holding him thus, she loosed Spike’s rigid fingers and drew away that clutching hand; then, seeing what that hand had striven to hide, she shrank suddenly away, letting the boy’s inanimate form slip from her clasp; and, as she knelt there above him, her shapely body was seized with fierce tremors.