For a minute or more I stood and watched him, walking farther and farther away from me; carrying farther and farther away with him what I now firmly believed to be the clue of which I was in search.  He turned, after walking on a little way, and looked back.  Seeing me still standing at the place where we had parted, he stopped, as if doubting whether I might not wish to speak to him again.  There was no time for me to reason out my own situation—­to remind myself that I was losing my opportunity, at what might be the turning point of my life, and all to flatter nothing more important than my own self-esteem!  There was only time to call him back first, and to think afterwards.  I suspect I am one of the rashest of existing men.  I called him back—­and then I said to myself, “Now there is no help for it.  I must tell him the truth!”

He retraced his steps directly.  I advanced along the road to meet him.

“Mr. Jennings,” I said.  “I have not treated you quite fairly.  My interest in tracing Mr. Candy’s lost recollection is not the interest of recovering the Moonstone.  A serious personal matter is at the bottom of my visit to Yorkshire.  I have but one excuse for not having dealt frankly with you in this matter.  It is more painful to me than I can say, to mention to anybody what my position really is.”

Ezra Jennings looked at me with the first appearance of embarrassment which I had seen in him yet.

“I have no right, Mr. Blake, and no wish,” he said, “to intrude myself into your private affairs.  Allow me to ask your pardon, on my side, for having (most innocently) put you to a painful test.”

“You have a perfect right,” I rejoined, “to fix the terms on which you feel justified in revealing what you heard at Mr. Candy’s bedside.  I understand and respect the delicacy which influences you in this matter.  How can I expect to be taken into your confidence if I decline to admit you into mine?  You ought to know, and you shall know, why I am interested in discovering what Mr. Candy wanted to say to me.  If I turn out to be mistaken in my anticipations, and if you prove unable to help me when you are really aware of what I want, I shall trust to your honour to keep my secret—­and something tells me that I shall not trust in vain.”

“Stop, Mr. Blake.  I have a word to say, which must be said before you go any farther.”  I looked at him in astonishment.  The grip of some terrible emotion seemed to have seized him, and shaken him to the soul.  His gipsy complexion had altered to a livid greyish paleness; his eyes had suddenly become wild and glittering; his voice had dropped to a tone—­low, stern, and resolute—­which I now heard for the first time.  The latent resources in the man, for good or for evil—­it was hard, at that moment, to say which—­leapt up in him and showed themselves to me, with the suddenness of a flash of light.