“It does, indeed.”

“And then, scarcely had my father breathed his last, when a man comes and asks for him at the garden-gate, and, upon hearing that he is dead, utters some imprecations, and walks away.”

“Well, Henry, you must trust to time and circumstances to unravel these mysteries.  For myself, I own that I cannot do so; I see no earthly way out of the difficulty whatever.  But still it does appear to me as if Dr. Chillingworth knew something or had heard something, with which he really ought to make you acquainted.”

“Do not blame the worthy doctor; he may have made an error of judgment, but never one of feeling; and you may depend, if he is keeping anything from me, that he is doing so from some excellent motive:  most probably because he thinks it will give me pain, and so will not let me endure any unhappiness from it, unless he is quite certain as regards the facts.  When he is so, you may depend he will be communicative, and I shall know all that he has to relate.  But, Charles, it is evident to me that you, too, are keeping something.”

“I!”

“Yes; you acknowledge to having had an interview, and a friendly one, with Varney; and you likewise acknowledge that he had told you things which he has compelled you to keep secret.”

“I have promised to keep them secret, and I deeply regret the promise that I have made.  There cannot be anything to my mind more essentially disagreeable than to have one’s tongue tied in one’s interview with friends.  I hate to hear anything that I may not repeat to those whom I take into my own confidence.”

“I can understand the feeling; but here comes the worthy doctor.”

“Show him the memorandum.”

“I will.”

As Dr. Chillingworth entered the apartments Henry handed him the memorandum that had been found in the old pocket-book, saying as he did so,—­

“Look at that, doctor, and give us your candid opinion upon it.”

Dr. Chillingworth fitted on his spectacles, and read the paper carefully.  At its conclusion, he screwed up his mouth into an extremely small compass, and doubling up the paper, he put it into his capacious waistcoat pocket, saying as he did so,—­

“Oh! oh! oh! oh! hum!”

“Well, doctor,” said Henry; “we are waiting for your opinion.”

“My opinion!  Well, then, my dear boy, I must say, my opinion, to the best of my belief is, that I really don’t know anything about it.”

“Then, perhaps, you’ll surrender us the memorandum,” said Charles; “because, if you don’t know anything, we may as well make a little inquiry.”

“Ha!” said the worthy doctor; “we can’t put old heads upon young shoulders, that’s quite clear.  Now, my good young men, be patient and quiet; recollect, that what you know you’re acquainted with, and that that which is hidden from you, you cannot very well come to any very correct conclusion upon.  There’s a right side and a wrong one you may depend, to every question; and he who walks heedlessly in the dark, is very apt to run his head against a post.  Good evening, my boys—­good evening.”