She received his bow; she directed Mrs. Carthew to have the doctor summoned immediately.  The remorseful woman flew.

’Admiral Fakenham is very ill, Mr. Woodseer, he has had distracting news.  Oh, no, the messenger is not blamed.  You are Lord Fleetwood’s friend and will not allow him to be prejudged.  He will be in town shortly.  I know him well, you know him; and could you hear him accused of cruelty—­and to a woman?  He is the soul of chivalry.  So, in his way, is the admiral.  If he were only more patient!  Let us wait for Lord Fleetwood’s version.  I am certain it will satisfy me.  The admiral wishes you to step up to him.  Be very quiet; you will be; consent to everything.  I was unaware of his condition:  the things I heard were incredible.  I hope the doctor will not delay.  Now go.  Beg to retire soon.’

Livia spoke under her breath; she had fears.

Admiral Baldwin lay in his bed, submitting to a nurse-woman-sign of extreme exhaustion.  He plucked strength from the sight of Gower and bundled the woman out of the room, muttering:  ’Kill myself?  Not half so quick as they’d do it.  I can’t rest for that Whitechapel of yours.  Please fetch pen and paper:  it’s a letter.’

The letter began, ‘Dear Lady Arpington.’

The dictation of it came in starts.  Atone moment it seemed as if life’s ending shook the curtains on our stage and were about to lift.  An old friend in the reader of the letter would need no excuse for its jerky brevity.  It said that his pet girl, Miss Kirby, was married to the Earl of Fleetwood in the first week of last month, and was now to be found at a shop No. 45 Longways, Whitechapel; that the writer was ill, unable to stir; that he would be in London within eight-and-forty hours at furthest.  He begged Lady Arpington to send down to the place and have the young countess fetched to her, and keep her until he came.

Admiral Baldwin sat up to sign the letter.

‘Yes, and write “miracles happen when the devil’s abroad”—­done it!’ he said, sinking back.  ’Now seal, you’ll find wax—­the ring at my watch-chain.’

He sighed, as it were the sound of his very last; he lay like a sleeper twitched by a dream.  There had been a scene with Livia.  The dictating of the letter took his remainder of strength out of him.

Gower called in the nurse, and went downstairs.  He wanted the address of Lady Arpington’s town house.

‘You have a letter for her?’ said Livia, and held her hand for it in a way not to be withstood.

‘There’s no superscription,’ he remarked.

‘I will see to that, Mr. Woodseer.’

‘I fancy I am bound, Lady Fleetwood.’

‘By no means.’  She touched his arm.  ‘You are Lord Fleetwood’s friend.’

A slight convulsion of the frame struck the admiral’s shirt-collar at his ears; it virtually prostrated him under foot of a lady so benign in overlooking the spectacle he presented.  Still, he considered; he had wits alive enough, just to perceive a duty.