“Some such suspicion,” I answered, “crossed my own mind, as soon as I opened the letter.”

“Exactly!  And when you had read the letter, you pitied the poor creature, and couldn’t find it in your heart to suspect her.  Does you credit, my dear sir—­does you credit!”

“But suppose it turns out that I did wear the nightgown?  What then?”

“I don’t see how the fact can be proved,” said Mr. Bruff.  “But assuming the proof to be possible, the vindication of your innocence would be no easy matter.  We won’t go into that, now.  Let us wait and see whether Rachel hasn’t suspected you on the evidence of the nightgown only.”

“Good God, how coolly you talk of Rachel suspecting me!” I broke out.  “What right has she to suspect Me, on any evidence, of being a thief?”

“A very sensible question, my dear sir.  Rather hotly put—­but well worth considering for all that.  What puzzles you, puzzles me too.  Search your memory, and tell me this.  Did anything happen while you were staying at the house—­not, of course, to shake Rachel’s belief in your honour—­but, let us say, to shake her belief (no matter with how little reason) in your principles generally?”

I started, in ungovernable agitation, to my feet.  The lawyer’s question reminded me, for the first time since I had left England, that something had happened.

In the eighth chapter of Betteredge’s Narrative, an allusion will be found to the arrival of a foreigner and a stranger at my aunt’s house, who came to see me on business.  The nature of his business was this.

I had been foolish enough (being, as usual, straitened for money at the time) to accept a loan from the keeper of a small restaurant in Paris, to whom I was well known as a customer.  A time was settled between us for paying the money back; and when the time came, I found it (as thousands of other honest men have found it) impossible to keep my engagement.  I sent the man a bill.  My name was unfortunately too well known on such documents:  he failed to negotiate it.  His affairs had fallen into disorder, in the interval since I had borrowed of him; bankruptcy stared him in the face; and a relative of his, a French lawyer, came to England to find me, and to insist upon the payment of my debt.  He was a man of violent temper; and he took the wrong way with me.  High words passed on both sides; and my aunt and Rachel were unfortunately in the next room, and heard us.  Lady Verinder came in, and insisted on knowing what was the matter.  The Frenchman produced his credentials, and declared me to be responsible for the ruin of a poor man, who had trusted in my honour.  My aunt instantly paid him the money, and sent him off.  She knew me better of course than to take the Frenchman’s view of the transaction.  But she was shocked at my carelessness, and justly angry with me for placing myself in a position, which, but for her interference, might have become a very disgraceful one.  Either