kill him, for some vile
purpose of my own; and if (which by no means always follows) I am really
capable of feeling the enormity of my own crime--that is, as I think,
true remorse. Murderer as I am, I have, in that case, some moral worth
still left in me. But if I did _not_ mean to kill the man--if his death
was my misfortune as well as his--and if (as frequently happens) I
am nevertheless troubled by remorse, the true cause lies in my own
inability fairly to realize my own motives--before I look to results. I
am the ignorant victim of false remorse; and if I will only ask myself
boldly what has blinded me to the true state of the case, I shall find
the mischief due to that misdirected appreciation of my own importance
which is nothing but egotism in disguise."

"I entirely agree with you," said Father Benwell; "I have had occasion
to say the same thing in the confessional."

Mr. Winterfield looked at his dog, and changed the subject. "Do you like
dogs, Mr. Romayne?" he asked. "I see my spaniel's eyes saying that he
likes you, and his tail begging you to take some notice of him."

Romayne caressed the dog rather absently.

His new friend had unconsciously presented to him a new view of the
darker aspect of his own life. Winterfield's refined, pleasant manners,
his generous readiness in placing the treasures of his library at a
stranger's disposal, had already appealed irresistibly to Romayne's
sensitive nature. The favorable impression was now greatly strengthened
by the briefly bold treatment which he had just heard of a subject in
which he was seriously interested. "I must see more of this man," was
his thought, as he patted the companionable spaniel.

Father Benwell's trained observation followed the vivid changes of
expression on Romayne's face, and marked the eager look in his eyes as
he lifted his head from the dog to the dog's master. The priest saw his
opportunity and took it.

"Do you remain long at Ten Acres Lodge?" he said to Romayne.

"I hardly know as yet. We have no other plans at present."

"You inherit the place, I think, from your late aunt, Lady Berrick?"

"Yes."

The tone of the reply was not encouraging; Romayne felt no interest in
talking of Ten Acres Lodge. Father Benwell persisted.

"I was told by Mrs. Eyrecourt," he went on "that Lady Berrick had some
fine pictures. Are they still at the Lodge?"

"Certainly. I couldn't live in a house without pictures."

Father Benwell looked at W