h or to withhold certain grave things that I have found out about
your husband's death, things not suspected by any one else, nor, I
think, likely to be so. What I have discovered--what I believe that I
have practically proved--will be a great shock to you in any case. But
it may be worse for you than that; and if you give me reason to think it
would be so, then I shall destroy this manuscript"--he laid a long
envelop on the small table beside him--"and nothing of what it has to
tell shall ever be printed. It consists, I may tell you, of a short
private note to my editor, followed by a long despatch for publication
in the _Record_. Now you may refuse to say anything to me. If you do
refuse, my duty to my employers, as I see it, is to take this up to
London with me to-day and leave it with my editor to be dealt with at
his discretion. My view is, you understand, that I am not entitled to
suppress it on the strength of a mere possibility that presents itself
to my imagination. But if I gather from you--and I can gather it from no
other person--that there is substance in that imaginary possibility I
speak of, then I have only one thing to do as a gentleman and as one
who"--he hesitated for a phrase--"wishes you well. I shall suppress that
despatch of mine. In some directions I decline to assist the police.
Have you followed me so far?" he asked with a touch of anxiety in his
careful coldness; for her face, but for its pallor, gave no sign as she
regarded him, her hands clasped before her and her shoulders drawn back
in a pose of rigid calm. She looked precisely as she had looked at the
inquest.

"I understand quite well," said Mrs. Manderson in a low voice. She drew
a deep breath, and went on: "I don't know what dreadful thing you have
found out, or what the possibility that has occurred to you can be, but
it was good--it was honorable of you to come to me about it. Now will
you please tell me?"

"I cannot do that," Trent replied. "The secret is my newspaper's, if it
is not yours. If I find it is yours, you shall have my manuscript to
read and destroy. Believe me," he broke out with something of his old
warmth, "I detest such mystery-making from the bottom of my soul, but it
is not I who have made this mystery. This is the most painful hour of my
life, and you make it worse by not treating me like a hound. The first
thing I ask you to tell me"--he reverted with an effort to his colorless
tone--"is this: is it true, as you