In the meanwhile, Sir John took his time to consider, and discovered that he had never heard of a person named Winterfield.  Having acknowledged his ignorance, in his own eloquent language, he drifted away to the window-box in the next room, and gravely contemplated Mrs. Eyrecourt, with her nose buried in flowers.

The doctor turned to me.  “Am I wrong, Father Benwell, in supposing that I had better have addressed myself to you?"

I admitted that I knew a gentleman named Winterfield.

Dr. Wybrow got up directly.  “Have you a few minutes to spare?” he asked.  It is needless to say that I was at the doctor’s disposal.  “My house is close by, and my carriage is at the door,” he resumed.  “When you feel inclined to say good-by to our friend Mrs. Eyrecourt, I have something to say to you which I think you ought to know.”

We took our departure at once.  Mrs. Eyrecourt (leaving some of the color of her nose among the flowers) patted me encouragingly with her fan, and told the doctor that he was forgiven, on the understanding that he would “never do it again.”  In five minutes more we were in Dr. Wybrow’s study.

My watch tells me that I cannot hope to finish this letter by post time.  Accept what I have written thus far—­and be assured that the conclusion of my report shall follow a day later.

II.

The doctor began cautiously.  “Winterfield is not a very common name,” he said.  “But it may not be amiss, Father Benwell, to discover, if we can, whether your Winterfield is the man of whom I am in search.  Do you only know him by name? or are you a friend of his?”

I answered, of course, that I was a friend.

Dr. Wybrow went on.  “Will you pardon me if I venture on an indiscreet question?  When you are acquainted with the circumstances, I am sure you will understand and excuse me.  Are you aware of any—­what shall I call it?—­any romantic incident in Mr. Winterfield’s past life?”

This time—­feeling myself, in all probability, on the brink of discovery—­I was careful to preserve my composure.  I said, quietly:  “Some such incident as you describe has occurred in Mr. Winterfield’s past life.”  There I stopped discreetly, and looked as if I knew all about it.

The doctor showed no curiosity to hear more.  “My object,” he went on, “was merely to be reasonably sure that I was speaking to the right person, in speaking to you.  I may now tell you that I have no personal interest in trying to discover Mr. Winterfield; I only act as the representative of an old friend of mine.  He is the proprietor of a private asylum at Sandsworth—­a man whose integrity is beyond dispute, or he would not be my friend.  You understand my motive in saying this?”

Proprietors of private asylums are, in these days, the objects of very general distrust in England.  I understood the doctor’s motive perfectly.