Abel urged the pony forward, and at last they arrived at the door of
Mr. Swiveller's lodgings.
"See! It's that room up there," said the Marchioness, pointing to one
where there was a faint light. "Come!"
Mr. Abel who was naturally timid, hesitated; for he had heard of people
being decoyed into strange places, to be robbed and murdered, under
circumstances very like the present, by guides very like the
Marchioness. His regard for Kit, however, overcame every other
consideration. So he suffered his companion to lead him up the dark and
narrow stair, into a dimly lighted sick-chamber, where a man was lying
tranquilly in bed, in whose wasted face he recognized the features of
Richard Swiveller.
"Why, how is this?" said Mr. Abel, kindly, "You have been ill?"
"Very," replied Dick, "Nearly dead. You might have chanced to hear of
your Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you.
Another shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you please. Sit down, sir."
Mr. Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide,
and took a chair by the bedside.
"I have sent for you, sir," said Dick--"but she told you on what
account?"
"She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don't know what to
say or think," replied Mr. Abel.
"You'll say that presently," retorted Dick. "Marchioness, take a seat
on the bed, will you? Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me, and
be particular.
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