and other people to see, or I should have been here before now."
"Then it is ended,,’ said Margaret. "There is to be no further enquiry."
"I believe I've got Mr. Thornton's note about me," said the Inspector, fumbling in his pocket-book.
"Mr. Thornton's!" said Margaret.
"Yes! he's a magistrate—ah! here it is." She could not see to read it—no, not although she was close to the candle. The words swam before her. But she held it in her hand, and looked at it as if she were intently studying it.
"I'm sure, ma'am, it's a great weight off my mind for the evidence was so uncertain, you see, that the man had received any blow at all,—and if any question of identity came in, it so complicated the case, as I told Mr. Thornton—"
"Mr. Thornton!" said Margaret, again.
"I met him this morning, just as he was coming out of this house, and, as he's an old friend of mine, besides being the magistrate who saw Leonards last night, I made bold to tell him of my difficulty."
Margaret sighed deeply. She did not want to hear any more; she was afraid alike of what she had heard, and of what she might hear. She wished that the man would go. She forced herself to speak.
"Thank you for calling. It is very late. I dare say it is past ten o'clock. Oh! here is the note!" she continued, suddenly interpreting the meaning of the hand held out to receive it. He was putting it up, when she said, "I think it is a cramped, dazzling
