slowness,
which the other, who was now curiously moved, found exasperating.

When at last he looked up at Oswyn he shaded his eyes with one hand,
but his face remained for the rest imperturbable and expressionless.
The painter saw that his discretion was larger than he had imagined.

If the reading had been disagreeably illuminative--and Oswyn
believed that under his surface composure he concealed, at least, a
terrible wound to his pride--he was not going to allow this
impression to appear.

"I might suggest that this document is a forgery," he said after a
moment.

Oswyn indulged in a little, harsh laugh, shrugging his shoulders.

"That would be too fatuous, Mr. Sylvester."

"I might suggest it," went on Charles slowly. "Perhaps, then, you
will be surprised when I tell you that I believe it to be genuine.
May I ask, Mr. Oswyn, why you move in this matter?"

"As Rainham's friend," said Oswyn quickly, "I intend to expose the
miserable calumny which clouded his last days."

"A public scandal would be greatly to be deplored," Charles hazarded
inconsequently, in the tone of a man who argued with himself.

Oswyn made as if he would have taken up the letter with a gesture of
sudden impatience; but Charles intercepted him quickly, and his
voice had a grave simplicity in it which arrested the other's
attention.

"Don't mistake me, Mr. Oswyn; I have not the least desire or
intention to suppress this document. I must expect you to judge me
harshly; but you will surely see that my honour is as deeply
concerned in the redressing of Mr. Rainham's reputation as anyone's
can be, only I am naturally desirous of sparing my--of sparing the
innocent persons who are unfortunately mixed up in the affair
unnecessary pain, the scandal of publicity."

"There are certain persons who must absolutely know the truth," said
Oswyn bluntly.

"If I pledge you my word that the persons whom you mean shall be
immediately enlightened, will you leave me to act alone?"

The other was silent for a moment revolving the proposition, half
surprised at the unwonted humility of the barrister's eagerness. At
last he said, with a short, ambiguous laugh:

"I will leave it in your hands, Mr. Sylvester."

He underwent a momentary repentance of his own readiness when he was
in the street, and had turned his face to Soho again; it seemed
almost childishly trusting. But presently, remembering he knew not
what shade of curious sternness in Sylvester's