Father Benwell bowed, in silence.

“You are mentioned,” Winterfield proceeded, “in the letter which I have just read.”

“Are you at liberty to tell me the name of your correspondent?” Father Benwell asked.

“I am not at liberty to do that.  But I think it due to you, and to myself, to tell you what the substance of the letter is.  The writer warns me to be careful in my intercourse with you.  Your object (I am told) is to make yourself acquainted with events in my past life, and you have some motive which my correspondent has thus far failed to discover.  I speak plainly, but I beg you to understand that I also speak impartially.  I condemn no man unheard—­least of all, a man whom I have had the honor of receiving under my own roof.”

He spoke with a certain simple dignity.  With equal dignity, Father Benwell answered.  It is needless to say that he now knew Winterfield’s correspondent to be Romayne’s wife.

“Let me sincerely thank you, Mr. Winterfield, for a candor which does honor to us both,” he said.  “You will hardly expect me—­if I may use such an expression—­to condescend to justify myself against an accusation which is an anonymous accusation so far as I am concerned.  I prefer to meet that letter by a plain proof; and I leave you to judge whether I am still worthy of the friendship to which you have so kindly alluded.”

With this preface he briefly related the circumstances under which he had become possessed of the packet, and then handed it to Winterfield—­with the seal uppermost.

“Decide for yourself,” he concluded, “whether a man bent on prying into your private affairs, with that letter entirely at his mercy, would have been true to the trust reposed in him.”

He rose and took his hat, ready to leave the room, if his honor was profaned by the slightest expression of distrust.  Winterfield’s genial and unsuspicious nature instantly accepted the offered proof as conclusive.  “Before I break the seal,” he said, “let me do you justice.  Sit down again, Father Benwell, and forgive me if my sense of duty has hurried me into hurting your feelings.  No man ought to know better than I do how often people misjudge and wrong each other.”

They shook hands cordially.  No moral relief is more eagerly sought than relief from the pressure of a serious explanation.  By common consent, they now spoke as lightly as if nothing had happened.  Father Benwell set the example.

“You actually believe in a priest!” he said gayly.  “We shall make a good Catholic of you yet.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” Winterfield replied, with a touch of his quaint humor.  “I respect the men who have given to humanity the inestimable blessing of quinine—­to say nothing of preserving learning and civilization—­but I respect still more my own liberty as a free Christian.”

“Perhaps a free thinker, Mr. Winterfield?”

“Anything you like to call it, Father Benwell, so long as it is free.”