ng deep; "she was getting too
great a hold on you, that young woman!"

"She retains that hold upon me, sir," I answered curtly.

"You are making a grave mistake in life, my dear Cumberledge," he went
on, in his old genial tone, which I had almost forgotten. "Before you
go further, and entangle yourself more deeply, I think it is only right
that I should undeceive you as to this girl's true position. She is
passing under a false name, and she comes of a tainted stock.... Nurse
Wade, as she chooses to call herself, is a daughter of the notorious
murderer, Yorke-Bannerman."

My mind leapt back to the incident of the broken basin.
Yorke-Bannerman's name had profoundly moved her. Then I thought of
Hilda's face. Murderers, I said to myself, do not beget such daughters
as that. Not even accidental murderers, like my poor friend Le Geyt. I
saw at once the prima facie evidence was strongly against her. But I had
faith in her still. I drew myself up firmly, and stared him back full in
the face. "I do not believe it," I answered, shortly.

"You do not believe it? I tell you it is so. The girl herself as good as
acknowledged it to me."

I spoke slowly and distinctly. "Dr. Sebastian," I said, confronting him,
"let us be quite clear with one another. I have found you out. I know
how you tried to poison that lady. To poison her with bacilli which
_I_ detected. I cannot trust your word; I cannot trust your inferences.
Either she is not Yorke-Bannerman's daughter at all, or else...
Yorke-Bannerman was NOT a murderer...." I watched his face closely.
Conviction leaped upon me. "And someone else was," I went on. "I might
put a name to him."

With a stern white face, he rose and opened the door. He pointed to it
slowly. "This hospital is not big enough for you and me abreast," he
said, with cold politeness. "One or other of us must go. Which, I leave
to your good sense to determine."

Even at that moment of detection and disgrace, in one man's eyes, at
least, Sebastian retained his full measure of dignity.

CHAPTER VI

THE EPISODE OF THE LETTER WITH THE BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK

I have a vast respect for my grandfather. He was a man of forethought.
He left me a modest little income of seven hundred a-year, well
invested. Now, seven hundred a-year is not exactly wealth; but it is an
unobtrusive competence; it permits a bachelor to move about the world
and choose at will his own profession. _I_ chose medicine; but I was
not who