"Perhaps I can account for it," I went on. "Did Mr. Romayne tell

his wife that I was the means of introducing you to him?"
He fixed another searching look on me. "Mr. Romayne might have

said so when he left me to receive his wife at the door."
"In that case, Mr. Winterfield, the explanation is as plain as

the sun at noonday. Mrs. Romayne is a strong Protestant, and I am
a Catholic priest."

He accepted this method of accounting for his reception with an
alacrity that would not have imposed on a child. You see I had

relieved him from all further necessity of accounting for the
conduct of Mrs. Romayne!

"A lady's religious prejudices," I proceeded in the friendliest
way, "are never taken seriously by a sensible man. You have

placed Mr. Romayne under obligations to your kindness--he is
eager to improve his acquaintance with you. You will go again to

Ten Acres Lodge?"
He gave me another short answer. "I think not."

I said I was sorry to hear it. "However," I added, "you can
always see him here, when you are in London." He puffed out a big

volume of smoke, and made no remark. I declined to be put down by
silence and smoke. "Or perhaps," I persisted, "you will honor me

by meeting him at a simple little dinner at my lodgings?" Being a
gentleman, he was of course obliged to answer this. He said, "You

are very kind; I would rather not. Shall we talk of something
else, Father Benwell?"

We talked of something else. He was just as amiable as ever--but
he was not in good spirits. "I think I shall run over to Paris

before the end of the month," he said. "To make a long stay?" I
asked. "Oh, no! Call in a week or ten days--and you will find me

here again."
When I got up to go, he returned of his own accord to the

forbidden subject. He said, "I must beg you to do me two favors.
The first is, not to let Mr. Romayne know that I am still in

London. The second is, not to ask me for any explanations."
The result of our interview may be stated in very few words. It

has advanced me one step nearer to discovery. Winterfield's
voice, look, and manner satisfied me of this--the true motive for

his sudden change of feeling toward Romayne is jealousy of the
man who has married Miss Eyrecourt. Those compromising

circumstances which baffled the inquiries of my agent are
associated, in plain English, with a love affair. Remember all

that I have told you of Romayne's peculiardisposition--and
imagine, if you can, what the consequences of such a disclosure

will be when we are in a position to enlighten the master of
Vange Abbey!

As to the present relations between the husband and wife, I have
only to tell you next what passed, when I visited Romayne a day

or two later. I did well to keep Penrose at our disposal. We
shall want him again.

----
On arriving at Ten Acres Lodge, I found Romayne in his study. His

manuscript lay before him--but he was not at work. He looked worn
and haggard. To this day I don't know from what precise nervous

malady he suffers; I could only guess that it had been troubling
him again since he and I last met.

My first conventional civilities were dedicated, of course, to
his wife. She is still in attendance on her mother. Mrs.

Eyrecourt is now considered to be out of danger. But the good
lady (who is ready enough to recommend doctors to other people)

persists in thinking that she is too robust a person to require
medical help herself. The physician in attendance trusts entirely

to her daughter to persuade her to persevere with the necessary
course of medicine. Don't suppose that I trouble you by

mentioning these trumpery circumstances without a reason. We
shall have occasion to return to Mrs. Eyrecourt and her doctor.

Before I had been five minutes in his company, Romayne asked me
if I had seen Winterfield since his visit to Ten Acres Lodge.

I said I had seen him, and waited, anticipating the next
question. Romayne fulfilled my expectations. He inquired if

Winterfield had left London.
There are certain cases (as I am told by medical authorities) in

which the dangerous system of bleeding a patient still has its
advantages. There are other cases in which the dangerous system

of telling the truth becomes equallyjudicious. I said to
Romayne, "If I answer you honestly, will you consider it as

strictly confidential? Mr. Winterfield, I regret to say, has no
intention of improving his acquaintance with you. He asked me to

conceal from you that he is still in London."
Romayne's face plainly betrayed that he was annoyed and

irritated. "Nothing that you say to me, Father Benwell, shall
pass the walls of this room," he replied. "Did Winterfield give

any reason for not continuing his acquaintance with me?"
I told the truth once more, with courteous expressions of regret.

"Mr. Winterfield spoke of an ungracious reception on the part of
Mrs. Romayne."

He started to his feet, and walked irritably up and down the
room. "It is beyond endurance!" he said to himself.

The truth had served its purpose by this time. I affected not to
have heard him. "Did you speak to me?" I asked.

He used a milder form of expression. "It is most unfortunate," he
said. "I must immediately send back the valuable book which Mr.

Winterfield has lent to me. And that is not the worst of it.
There are other volumes in his library which I have the greatest

interest in consulting--and it is impossible for me to borrow
them now. At this time, too, when I have lost Penrose, I had

hoped to find in Winterfield another friend who sympathized with
my pursuits. There is something so cheering and attractive in his

manner--and he has just the boldness and novelty of view in his
opinions that appeal to a man like me. It was a pleasant future

to look forward to; and it must be sacrificed--and to what? To a
woman's caprice."

From our point of view this was a frame of mind to be encouraged.
I tried the experiment of modestlytaking the blame on myself. I

suggested that I might be (quite innocently) answerable for
Romayne's disappointment.

He looked at me thoroughly puzzled. I repeated what I had said to
Winterfield. "Did you mention to Mrs. Romayne that I was the

means of introducing you--?"
He was too impatient to let me finish the sentence. "I did

mention it to Mrs. Romayne," he said. "And what of it?"
"Pardon me for reminding you that Mrs. Romayne has Protestant

prejudices," I rejoined. "Mr. Winterfield would, I fear, not be
very welcome to her as the friend of a Catholic priest."

He was almost angry with me for suggesting the very explanation
which had proved so acceptable to Winterfield.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "My wife is far too well-bred a woman to
let her prejudices express themselves in _that_ way.

Winterfield's personal appearance must have inspired her with
some unreasonable antipathy, or--"

He stopped, and turned away thoughtfully to the window. Some
vague suspicion had probably entered his mind, which he had only

become aware of at that moment, and which he was not quite able
to realize as yet. I did my best to encourage the new train of

thought.
"What other reason _can_ there be?" I asked.

He turned on me sharply. "I don't know. Do you?"
I ventured on a courteous remonstrance. "My dear sir! if you