which the proprietor of the
asylum had confided to him, as if he had never broken a seal or used a
counterfeit to hide the betrayal of a trust. The re-sealed packet
was safe in the pocket of his long black frockcoat. His own future
proceedings depended, in some degree, on the course which Winterfield
might take, when he had read the confession of the unhappy woman who had
once been his wife.

Would he show the letter to Stella, at a private interview, as an
unanswerable proof that she had cruelly wronged him? And would it
in this case be desirable--if the thing could be done--so to handle
circumstances as that Romayne might be present, unseen, and might
discover the truth for himself? In the other event--that is to say, if
Winterfield abstained from communicating the confession to Stella--the
responsibility of making the necessary disclosure must remain with the
priest.

Father Benwell walked softly up and down the room, looking about him
with quietly-observant eye. A side table in a corner was covered with
letters, waiting Winterfield's return. Always ready for information of
any sort, he even looked at the addresses on the letters.

The handwritings presented the customary variety of character. All but
three of the envelopes showed the London district postmarks. Two of
the other letters (addressed to Winterfield at his club) bore foreign
postmarks; and one, as the altered direction showed, had been forward
from Beaupark House to the hotel.

This last letter especially attracted the priest's attention.

The address was apparently in a woman's handwriting. And it was worthy
of remark that she appeared to be the only person among Winterfield's
correspondents who was not acquainted with the address of his hotel or
of his club. Who could the person be? The subtly inquiring intellect
of Father Benwell amused itself by speculating even on such a trifling
problem as this. He little thought that he had a personal interest in
the letter. The envelope contained Stella's warning to Winterfield to
distrust no less a person than Father Benwell himself!

It was nearly half-past five before quick footsteps were audible
outside. Winterfield entered the room.

"This is friendly indeed!" he said. "I expected to return to the worst
of all solitudes--solitude in a hotel. You will stay and dine with me?
That's right. You must have thought I was going to settle in Paris. Do
you know what has kept me so long? The most delightful thea