y
deeply-wronged child half inclines me to consult her wishes, before we
settle anything--I'll go up-stairs,' said he. 'And I'll wait for you
down here,' said I."

"Did he object to that?"

"Not he. He went up-stairs, and in a few minutes ran down again, with
an open letter in his hand, looking as if the devil was after him before
his time. At the last three or four stairs, he tripped, caught at the
bannisters, dropped the letter over them in doing so, tumbled into the
passage in such a fury and fright that he looked like a madman, tore his
hat off a peg, and rushed out. I just heard him say his daughter should
come back, if he put a straight waistcoat on her, as he passed the door.
Between his tumble, his passion, and his hurry, he never thought of
coming back for the letter he had dropped over the bannisters. I picked
it up before I went away, suspecting it might be good evidence on our
side; and I was right. Read it yourself; Basil; you have every moral and
legal claim on the precious document--and here it is."

I took the letter, and read (in Mannion's handwriting) these words,
dated from the hospital:--

"I have received your last note, and cannot wonder that you are getting
impatient under restraint. But, remember, that if you had not acted as
I warned you beforehand to act in case of accidents--if you had not
protested innocence to your father, and preserved total silence towards
your mother; if you had not kept in close retirement, behaving like
a domestic martyr, and avoiding, in your character of a victim, all
voluntary mention of your husband's name--your position might have been
a very awkward one. Not being able to help you, the only thing I could
do was to teach you how to help yourself. I gave you the lesson, and you
have been wise enough to profit by it.

"The time has now come for a change in my plans. I have suffered
a relapse; and the date of my discharge from this place is still
uncertain. I doubt the security, both on your account, and on mine, of
still leaving you at your father's house, to await my cure. Come to
me here, therefore, to-morrow, at any hour when you can get away
unperceived. You will be let in as a visitor, and shown to my bedside,
if you ask for Mr. Turner--the name I have given to the hospital
authorities. Through the help of a friend outside these walls, I have
arranged for a lodging in which you can live undiscovered, until I am
discharged and can join you. You can come