It was then half-past four.  Father Benwell decided to await the return of his friend.

He was as anxious to deliver the papers which the proprietor of the asylum had confided to him, as if he had never broken a seal or used a counterfeit to hide the betrayal of a trust.  The re-sealed packet was safe in the pocket of his long black frockcoat.  His own future proceedings depended, in some degree, on the course which Winterfield might take, when he had read the confession of the unhappy woman who had once been his wife.

Would he show the letter to Stella, at a private interview, as an unanswerable proof that she had cruelly wronged him?  And would it in this case be desirable—­if the thing could be done—­so to handle circumstances as that Romayne might be present, unseen, and might discover the truth for himself?  In the other event—­that is to say, if Winterfield abstained from communicating the confession to Stella—­the responsibility of making the necessary disclosure must remain with the priest.

Father Benwell walked softly up and down the room, looking about him with quietly-observant eye.  A side table in a corner was covered with letters, waiting Winterfield’s return.  Always ready for information of any sort, he even looked at the addresses on the letters.

The handwritings presented the customary variety of character.  All but three of the envelopes showed the London district postmarks.  Two of the other letters (addressed to Winterfield at his club) bore foreign postmarks; and one, as the altered direction showed, had been forward from Beaupark House to the hotel.

This last letter especially attracted the priest’s attention.

The address was apparently in a woman’s handwriting.  And it was worthy of remark that she appeared to be the only person among Winterfield’s correspondents who was not acquainted with the address of his hotel or of his club.  Who could the person be?  The subtly inquiring intellect of Father Benwell amused itself by speculating even on such a trifling problem as this.  He little thought that he had a personal interest in the letter.  The envelope contained Stella’s warning to Winterfield to distrust no less a person than Father Benwell himself!

It was nearly half-past five before quick footsteps were audible outside.  Winterfield entered the room.

“This is friendly indeed!” he said.  “I expected to return to the worst of all solitudes—­solitude in a hotel.  You will stay and dine with me?  That’s right.  You must have thought I was going to settle in Paris.  Do you know what has kept me so long?  The most delightful theater in the world—­the Opera Comique.  I am so fond of the bygone school of music, Father Benwell—­the flowing graceful delicious melodies of the composers who followed Mozart.  One can only enjoy that music in Paris.  Would you believe that I waited a week to hear Nicolo’s delightful Joconde for the second time.  I was almost the only young man in the stalls.  All round me were the old men who remembered the first performances of the opera, beating time with their wrinkled hands to the tunes which were associated with the happiest days of their lives.  What’s that I hear?  My dog!  I was obliged to leave him here, and he knows I have come back!”