My ever-helpful guide led me to my room—well out of Mr. Gracedieu’s hearing, if he happened to be awake—at the other end of the passage. Having opened the door, she paused on the threshold. The decrees of that merciless English despot, Propriety, claimed her for their own. “Oh, dear!” she said to herself, “ought I to go in?”

My interest as a man (and, what is more, an old man) in the coming disclosure was too serious to be trifled with in this way. I took her arm, and led her into my room as if I was at a dinner-party, leading her to the table. Is it the good or the evil fortune of mortals that the comic side of life, and the serious side of life, are perpetually in collision with each other? We burst out laughing, at a moment of grave importance to us both. Perfectly inappropriate, and perfectly natural. But we were neither of us philosophers, and we were ashamed of our own merriment the moment it had ceased.

“When you hear what I have to tell you,” Miss Jillgall began, “I hope you will think as I do. What has slipped Mr. Gracedieu’s memory, it may be safer to say—for he is sometimes irritable, poor dear—where he won’t know anything about it.”

With that she told the lamentable story of the desertion of Eunice.

In silence I listened, from first to last. How could I trust myself to speak, as I must have spoken, in the presence of a woman? The cruel injury inflicted on the poor girl, who had interested and touched me in the first innocent year of her life—who had grown to womanhood to be the victim of two wretches, both trusted by her, both bound to her by the sacred debt of love—so fired my temper that I longed to be within reach of the man, with a horsewhip in my hand. Seeing in my face, as I suppose, what was passing in my mind, Miss Jillgall expressed sympathy and admiration in her own quaint way: “Ah, I like to see you so angry! It’s grand to know that a man who has governed prisoners has got such a pitying heart. Let me tell you one thing, sir. You will be more angry than ever, when you see my sweet girl to-morrow. And mind this—it is Helena’s devouring vanity, Helena’s wicked jealousy of her sister’s good fortune, that has done the mischief. Don’t be too hard on Philip? I do believe, if the truth was told, he is ashamed of himself.”

I felt inclined to be harder on Philip than ever. “Where is he?” I asked.

Miss Jillgall started. “Oh, Mr. Governor, don’t show the severe side of yourself, after the pretty compliment I have just paid to you! What a masterful voice! and what eyes, dear sir; what terrifying eyes! I feel as if I was one of your prisoners, and had misbehaved myself.”

I repeated my question with improvement, I hope, in my looks and tones: “Don’t think me obstinate, my dear lady. I only want to know if he is in this town.”

Miss Jillgall seemed to take a curious pleasure in disappointing me; she had not forgotten my unfortunate abruptness of look and manner. “You won’t find him here,” she said.

“Perhaps he has left England?”

“If you must know, sir, he is in London—with Mr. Dunboyne.”

The name startled me.

In a moment more it recalled to my memory a remarkable letter, addressed to me many years ago, which will be found in my introductory narrative. The writer—an Irish gentleman, named Dunboyne confided to me that his marriage had associated him with the murderess, who had then been recently executed, as brother-in-law to that infamous woman. This circumstance he had naturally kept a secret from every one, including his son, then a boy. I alone was made an exception to the general rule, because I alone could tell him what had become of the poor little girl, who in spite of the disgraceful end of her mother was still his niece. If the child had not been provided for, he felt it his duty to take charge of her education, and to watch over her prospects in the future. Such had been his object in writing to me; and such was the substance of his letter. I had merely informed him, in reply, that his kind intentions had been anticipated, and that the child’s prosperous future was assured.

Miss Jillgall’s keen observation noticed the impression that had been produced upon me. “Mr. Dunboyne’s name seems to surprise you.” she said.

“This is the first time I have heard you mention it,” I answered.

She looked as if she could hardly believe me. “Surely you must have heard the name,” she said, “when I told you about poor Euneece?”

“No.”

“Well, then, Mr. Gracedieu must have mentioned it?”

“No.”

This second reply in the negative irritated her.

“At any rate,” she said, sharply, “you appeared to know Mr. Dunboyne’s name, just now.”

“Certainly!”

“And yet,” she persisted, “the name seemed to come upon you as a surprise. I don’t understand it. If I have mentioned Philip’s name once, I have mentioned it a dozen times.”

We were completely at cross-purposes. She had taken something for granted which was an unfathomable mystery to me.

“Well,” I objected, “if you did mention his name a dozen times—excuse me for asking the question—-what then?”

“Good heavens!” cried Miss Jillgall, “do you mean to say you never guessed that Philip was Mr. Dunboyne’s son?”

I was petrified.

His son! Dunboyne’s son! How could I have guessed it?

At a later time only, the good little creature who had so innocently deceived me, remembered that the mischief might have been wrought by the force of habit. While he had still a claim on their regard the family had always spoken of Eunice’s unworthy lover by his Christian name; and what had been familiar in their mouths felt the influence of cus............