too impatient to let me finish the sentence. "I did mention it to
Mrs. Romayne," he said. "And what of it?"

"Pardon me for reminding you that Mrs. Romayne has Protestant
prejudices," I rejoined. "Mr. Winterfield would, I fear, not be very
welcome to her as the friend of a Catholic priest."

He was almost angry with me for suggesting the very explanation which
had proved so acceptable to Winterfield.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "My wife is far too well-bred a woman to let her
prejudices express themselves in _that_ way. Winterfield's personal
appearance must have inspired her with some unreasonable antipathy,
or--"

He stopped, and turned away thoughtfully to the window. Some vague
suspicion had probably entered his mind, which he had only become aware
of at that moment, and which he was not quite able to realize as yet. I
did my best to encourage the new train of thought.

"What other reason _can_ there be?" I asked.

He turned on me sharply. "I don't know. Do you?"

I ventured on a courteous remonstrance. "My dear sir! if you can't find
another reason, how can I? It must have been a sudden antipathy, as you
say. Such things do happen between strangers. I suppose I am right in
assuming that Mrs. Romayne and Mr. Winterfield are strangers?"

His eyes flashed with a sudden sinister brightness--the new idea had
caught light in his mind. "They _met_ as strangers," he said.

There he stopped again, and returned to the window. I felt that I might
lose the place I had gained in his confidence if I pressed the subject
any further. Besides, I had my reasons for saying a word about Penrose
next. As it happened, I had received a letter from him, relating to his
present employment, and sending kindest regards to his dear friend and
master in the postscript.

I gave the message. Romayne looked round, with an instant change in his
face. The mere sound of Penrose's name seemed to act as a relief to the
gloom and suspicion that had oppressed him the moment before. "You don't
know how I miss the dear gentle little fellow," he said, sadly.

"Why not write to him?" I suggested. "He would be so glad to hear from
you again."

"I don't know where to write."

"Did I not send you his address when I forwarded your letter to him?"

"No."

"Then let me atone for my forgetfulness at once."

I wrote down the address, and took my leave.

As I approached the door I noticed on a side table the Catholic volumes
which Penrose left with