“We have left Adelaide Palliser down at the Hall. We are up here only for a couple of days to see Laura, and try to find out what had better be done about Kennedy.” This was said to Phineas Finn in his own room in Great Marlborough Street by Lord Chiltern, on the morning after the murder, between ten and eleven o’clock. Phineas had not as yet heard of the death of the man with whom he had quarrelled. Lord Chiltern had now come to him with some proposition which he as yet did not understand, and which Lord Chiltern certainly did not know how to explain. Looked at simply, the proposition was one for providing Phineas Finn with an income out of the wealth belonging, or that would belong, to the Standish family. Lady Laura’s fortune would, it was thought, soon be at her own disposal. They who acted for her husband had assured the Earl that the yearly interest of the money should be at her ladyship’s command as soon as the law would allow them so to plan it. Of Robert Kennedy’s inability to act for himself there was no longer any doubt whatever, and there was, they said, no desire to embarrass the estate with so small a disputed matter as the income derived from oe40,000. There was great pride of purse in the manner in which the information was conveyed — but not the less on that account was it satisfactory to the Earl. Lady Laura’s first thought about it referred to the imminent wants of Phineas Finn. How might it be possible for her to place a portion of her income at the command of the man she loved so that he should not feel disgraced by receiving it from her hand? She conceived some plan as to a loan to be made nominally by her brother — a plan as to which it may at once be said that it could not be made to hold water for a minute. But she did succeed in inducing her brother to undertake the embassy, with the view of explaining to Phineas that there would be money for him when he wanted it. “If I make it over to Papa, Papa can leave it him in his will; and if he wants it at once there can be no harm in your advancing to him what he must have at Papa’s death.” Her brother had frowned angrily and had shaken his head. “Think how he has been thrown over by all the party,” said Lady Laura. Lord Chiltern had disliked the whole affair — had felt with dismay that his sister’s name would become subject to reproach if it should be known that this young man was supported by her bounty. She, however, had persisted, and he had consented to see the young man, feeling sure that Phineas would refuse to bear the burden of the obligation.

But he had not touched the disagreeable subject when they were interrupted. A knocking of the door had been heard, and now Mrs Bunce came upstairs, bringing Mr Low with her. Mrs Bunce had not heard of the tragedy, but she had at once perceived from the barrister’s manner that there was some serious matter forward — some matter that was probably not only serious, but also calamitous. The expression of her countenance announced as much to the two men, and the countenance of Mr Low when he followed her into the room told the same story still more plainly. “Is anything the matter?” said Phineas, jumping up.

“Indeed, yes,” said Mr Low, who then looked at Lord Chiltern and was silent.

“Shall I go?” said Lord Chiltern. Mr Low did not know him, and of course was still silent.

“This is my friend, Mr Low. This is my friend, Lord Chiltern,” said Phineas, aware that each was well acquainted with the other’s name. “I do not know of any reason why you should go. What is it, Low?”

Lord Chiltern had come there about money, and it occurred to him that the impecunious young barrister might already be in some scrape on that head. In nineteen cases out of twenty, when a man is in a scrape, he simply wants money. “Perhaps I can be of help,” he said.

“Have you heard, my Lord, what happened last night?” said Mr Low, with his eyes fixed on Phineas Finn.

“I have heard nothing,” said Lord Chiltern.

“What has happened?” asked Phineas, looking aghast. He knew Mr Low well enough to be sure that the thing referred to was of great and distressing moment.

“You, too, have heard nothing?”

“Not a word — that I know of.”

“You were at the Universe last night?”

“Certainly I was.”

“Did anything occur?”

“The Prince was there.”

“Nothing has happened to the Prince?” said Chiltern.

“His name has not been mentioned to me,” said Mr Low. “Was there not a quarrel?”

“Yes;’ — said Phineas. “I quarrelled with Mr Bonteen.”

“What then?”

“He behaved like a brute — as he always does. Thrashing a brute hardly answers nowadays, but if ever a man deserved a thrashing he does.”

“He has been murdered,” said Mr Low.

The reader need hardly be told that, as regards this great offence, Phineas Finn was as white as snow. The maintenance of any doubt on that matter — were it even desirable to maintain a doubt — would be altogether beyond the power of the present writer. The reader has probably perceived, from the first moment of the discovery of the body on the steps at the end of the passage, that Mr Bonteen had been killed by that ingenious gentleman, the Rev. Mr Emilius, who found it to be worth his while to take the step with the view of suppressing his enemy’s evidence as to his former marriage. But Mr Low, when he entered the room, had been inclined to think that his friend had done the deed. Laurence Fitzgibbon, who had been one of the first to hear the story, and who had summoned Erle to go with him and Major Mackintosh to Downing Street, had, in the first place, gone to the house in Carey Street, in which Bunce was wont to work, and had sent him to Mr Low. He, Fitzgibbon, had not thought it safe that he himself should warn his countryman, but he could not bear to think that the hare should be knocked over on its form, or that his friend should be taken by policemen without notice. So he had sent Bunce to Mr Low, and Mr Low had now come with his tidings.

“Murdered!” exclaimed Phineas.

“Who has murdered him?” said Lord Chiltern, looking first at Mr Low and then at Phineas.

“That is what the police are now endeavouring to find out.” Then there was a pause, and Phineas stood up with his hand on his forehead, looking savagely from one to the other. A glimmer of an idea of the truth was beginning to cross his brain. Mr Low was there with the object of asking him whether he had murdered the man! “Mr Fitzgibbon was with you last night,” continued Mr Low.

“Of course he was.”

“It was he who has sent me to you.”

“What does it all mean?” asked Lord Chiltern. “I suppose they do not intend to say that — our friend, here — murdered the man.”

“I begin to suppose that is what they intend to say,” rejoined Phineas, scornfully.

Mr Low had entered the room, doubting indeed, but still inclined to believe — as Bunce had very clearly believed — that the hands of Phineas Finn were red with the blood of this man who had been killed. And, had he been questioned on such a matter, when no special case was before his mind, he would have declared of himself that a few tones from the voice, or a few glances from the eye, of a suspected man would certainly not suffice to eradicate suspicion. But now he was quite sure — almost quite sure — that Phineas was as innocent as himself. To Lord Chiltern, who had heard none of the details, the suspicion was so monstrous as to fill him with wrath. “You don’t mean to tell us, Mr Low, that anyone says that Finn killed the man?”

“I have come as his friend,” said Low, “to put him on his guard. The accusation will be made against him.”

To Phineas, not clearly looking at it, not knowing very accurately what had happened, not being in truth quite sure that Mr Bonteen was actually dead, this seemed to be a continuation of the persecution which he believed himself to have suffered from that man’s hand. “I can believe anything from that quarter,” he said.

“From what quarter?” asked Lord Chiltern. “We had better let Mr Low tell us what really has happened.”

Then Mr Low told the story, as well as he knew it, describing the spot on which the body had been found. “Often as I go to the club,” said Phineas, “I never was through that passage in my life.” Mr Low went on with his tale, telling how the man had been killed with some short bludgeon. “I had that in my pocket,” said Finn, producing the life-preserver. “I have almost always had something of the kind when I have been in London, since that affair of Kennedy’s.” Mr Low cast one glance at it — to see whether it had been washed or scraped, or in anyway cleansed. Phineas saw the glance, and was angry. “There it is, as it is. You can make the most of it. I shall not touch............