“I intend no discourtesy, sir; but my feelings are so deeply enlisted, that I cannot stop to choose and pick phrases, in talking to the person who caused that child to be shut up here.  She thinks you are the most vindictive and dangerous enemy she has; and I had no reason to contradict her.  Don’t be offended, Mr. Dunbar.”

He deigned no answer, but the dilation of his thin nostrils, and the stern contraction of his handsome lips, attested his wrath.  Mrs. Singleton rose and laid her fingers on his coat sleeve.

“If I felt sure I could trust you—­”

“I decline your confidence.  Madam, if I could only tell you, that your vile suspicions are too contemptible to merit the indignation they arouse, I should to some extent feel relieved.”

“Then having said it, I will let you off without an apology; and wipe the slate, and start fresh.  You are sensitive about your honor, and I am determined to find out just how much it is worth.  Trusting you as an honorable gentleman, I am going to ask you to do something for me, which may be of service to my patient; and I ask it, because I have unlimited faith in your skill.  Find out who ‘Ricordo’ is.”

“Why?  I must thoroughly understand the import of whatever I undertake, and if your reasons are too sacred to be communicated to me, you must select some other agent.  I do not solicit your confidence, mark you; but I must know all, or nothing.”

“The day she was taken so ill, I was undressing her, and she looked at me very strangely, and said she believed she was losing her mind.  Then she raised her hands and prayed: 

“‘Lord, be merciful!  Lord, seal my lips!  Seal my lips!’

“Since then she has not known me, but several times she cried out ‘Ricordo’!  Last night she sat up suddenly, and stared at something she seemed to see right before her in the air.  She shook her head at first, and said—­’Oh, no! it cannot be possible’.  Then she clutched at some invisible object, and a look of horror came into her eyes.  She struck her palms together, and I never heard such an agonizing cry, ’There is no help!  I must believe it—­oh Ricordo!—­Ricordo—­ Ricordo’.  She fell back and shivered as if she had an ague.  I tried to soothe her, and told her she had a bad dream.  She kept saying:  ‘Oh, horrible—­it was, it was Ricordo!’ Once, early this morning, she pulled me down to her and whispered:  ’Don’t tell mother—­it would break her heart to know it was Ricordo!’ She has not spoken distinctly since, though she mutters to herself.  Now, Mr. Dunbar, if I did not feel as sure of her innocence as I am of my own, I should never tell you this; but I want your aid to hunt and catch this ‘Ricordo’, because I am satisfied it will help to clear her.”

“Was it not ’Ricardo’?”

“No, sir—­it sounded as if spelled with an o not an a—­and it was ’Ricordo’.”

“Ricardo is a proper name, but I am under the impression that ‘Ricordo’ is an Italian word that means simply a remembrance, a souvenir, sometimes a warning.  I am glad, however, to have the clue, and I will do all I can to discover what connection exists between that word, and the crime.  Can you tell me nothing more?”