“The doctors recommend plenty of exercise and amusement for Rachel, and strongly urge me to keep her mind as much as possible from dwelling on the past,” said Lady Verinder.

“Oh, what heathen advice!” I thought to myself.  “In this Christian country, what heathen advice!”

My aunt went on, “I do my best to carry out my instructions.  But this strange adventure of Godfrey’s happens at a most unfortunate time.  Rachel has been incessantly restless and excited since she first heard of it.  She left me no peace till I had written and asked my nephew Ablewhite to come here.  She even feels an interest in the other person who was roughly used—­Mr. Luker, or some such name—­though the man is, of course, a total stranger to her.”

“Your knowledge of the world, dear aunt, is superior to mine,” I suggested diffidently.  “But there must be a reason surely for this extraordinary conduct on Rachel’s part.  She is keeping a sinful secret from you and from everybody.  May there not be something in these recent events which threatens her secret with discovery?”

“Discovery?” repeated my aunt.  “What can you possibly mean?  Discovery through Mr. Luker?  Discovery through my nephew?”

As the word passed her lips, a special providence occurred.  The servant opened the door, and announced Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.

CHAPTER II

Mr. Godfrey followed the announcement of his name—­as Mr. Godfrey does everything else—­exactly at the right time.  He was not so close on the servant’s heels as to startle us.  He was not so far behind as to cause us the double inconvenience of a pause and an open door.  It is in the completeness of his daily life that the true Christian appears.  This dear man was very complete.

“Go to Miss Verinder,” said my aunt, addressing the servant, “and tell her Mr. Ablewhite is here.”

We both inquired after his health.  We both asked him together whether he felt like himself again, after his terrible adventure of the past week.  With perfect tact, he contrived to answer us at the same moment.  Lady Verinder had his reply in words.  I had his charming smile.

“What,” he cried, with infinite tenderness, “have I done to deserve all this sympathy?  My dear aunt! my dear Miss Clack!  I have merely been mistaken for somebody else.  I have only been blindfolded; I have only been strangled; I have only been thrown flat on my back, on a very thin carpet, covering a particularly hard floor.  Just think how much worse it might have been!  I might have been murdered; I might have been robbed.  What have I lost?  Nothing but Nervous Force—­which the law doesn’t recognise as property; so that, strictly speaking, I have lost nothing at all.  If I could have had my own way, I would have kept my adventure to myself—­I shrink from all this fuss and publicity.  But Mr. Luker made his injuries public, and my injuries, as the necessary