After having identified my handwriting, I waited with some curiosity to see whether Helena would let her anger honestly show itself, or whether she would keep it down. She kept it down.

“Allow me to return good for evil.” (The evil was uppermost, nevertheless, when Miss Gracedieu expressed herself in these self-denying terms.) “You are no doubt anxious to know if Philip’s father has been won over to serve your purpose. Here is Philip’s own account of it: the last of his letters that I shall trouble you to read.”

I looked it over. The memorandum follows which I made for my own use:

An eccentric philosopher is as capable as the most commonplace human being in existence of behaving like an honorable man. Mr. Dunboyne read the letter which bore the Minister’s signature, and handed it to his son. “Can you answer that?” was all he said. Philip’s silence confessed that he was unable to answer it—and Philip himself, I may add, rose accordingly in my estimation. His father pointed to the writing-desk. “I must spare my cramped hand,” the philosopher resumed, “and I must answer Mr. Gracedieu’s letter. Write, and leave a place for my signature.” He began to dictate his reply. “Sir—My son Philip has seen your letter, and has no defense to make. In this respect he has set an example of candor which I propose to follow. There is no excuse for him. What I can do to show that I feel for you, and agree with you, shall be done. At the age which this young man has reached, the laws of England abolish the authority of his father. If he is sufficiently infatuated to place his honor and his happiness at the mercy of a lady, who has behaved to her sister as your daughter has behaved to Miss Eunice, I warn the married couple not to expect a farthing of my money, either during my lifetime or after my death. Your faithful servant, DUNBOYNE, SENIOR.” Having performed his duty as secretary, Philip received his dismissal: “You may send my reply to the post,” his father said; “and you may keep Mr. Gracedieu’s letter. Morally speaking, I regard that last document as a species of mirror, in which a young gentleman like yourself may see how ugly he looks.” This, Philip declared, was his father’s form of farewell. I handed back the letter to Helena. Not a word passed between us. In sinister silence she opened the door and left me alone in the room.

That Mrs. Gracedieu and I had met in the bygone time, and—this was the only serious part of it—had met in secret, would now be made known to the Minister. Was I to blame for having shrunk from distressing my good friend, by telling him that his wife had privately consulted me on the means of removing his adopted child from his house? And, even if I had been cruel enough to do this, would he have believed my statement against the positive denial with which the woman whom he loved and trusted would have certainly met it? No! let the consequences of the coming disclosure be what they might, I failed to see any valid reason for regretting my conduct in the past time.

I found Miss Jillgall waiting in the passage to see me come out.

Before I could tell her what had happened, there was a ring at the house-bell. The visitor proved to be Mr. Wellwood, the doctor. I was anxious to speak to him on the subject of Mr. Gracedieu’s health. Miss Jillgall introduced me, as an old and dear friend of the Minister, and left us together in the dining-room.

“What do I think of Mr. Gracedieu?” he said, repeating the first question that I put. “Well, sir, I think badly of him.”

Entering into details, after that ominous reply, Mr. Wellwood did not hesitate to say that his patient’s nerves were completely shattered. Disease of the brain had, as he feared, been already set up. “As to the causes which have produced this lamentable break-down,” the doctor continued, “Mr. Gracedieu has been in the habit of preaching extempore twice a day on Sundays, and someti............