It was not all a lie—­there were grains of truth in that outburst of sympathy.  Father Benwell was not wholly merciless.  His far-seeing intellect, his daring duplicity, carried him straight on to his end in view.  But, that end once gained—­and, let it be remembered, not gained, in this case, wholly for himself—­there were compassionate impulses left in him which sometimes forced their way to the surface.  A man of high intelligence—­however he may misuse it, however unworthy he may be of it—­has a gift from Heaven.  When you want to see unredeemed wickedness, look for it in a fool.

“Let me mention one circumstance,” Father Benwell proceeded, “which may help to relieve you for the moment.  In your present state of mind, you cannot return to The Retreat.”

“Impossible!”

“I have had a room prepared for you in this house.  Here, free from any disturbing influence, you can shape the future course of your life.  If you wish to communicate with your residence at Highgate—­”

“Don’t speak of it!”

Father Benwell sighed.  “Ah, I understand!” he said, sadly.  “The house associated with Mr. Winterfield’s visit—­”

Romayne again interrupted him—­this time by gesture only.  The hand that had made the sign clinched itself when it rested afterward on the table.  His eyes looked downward, under frowning brows.  At the name of Winterfield, remembrances that poisoned every better influence in him rose venomously in his mind.  Once more he loathed the deceit that had been practiced on him.  Once more the detestable doubt of that asserted parting at the church door renewed its stealthy torment, and reasoned with him as if in words:  She has deceived you in one thing; why not in another?

“Can I see my lawyer here?” he asked, suddenly.

“My dear Romayne, you can see any one whom you like to invite.”

“I shall not trouble you by staying very long, Father Benwell.”

“Do nothing in a hurry, my son.  Pray do nothing in a hurry!”

Romayne paid no attention to this entreaty.  Shrinking from the momentous decision that awaited him, his mind instinctively took refuge in the prospect of change of scene.  “I shall leave England,” he said, impatiently.

“Not alone!” Father Benwell remonstrated.

“Who will be my companion?”

“I will,” the priest answered.

Romayne’s weary eyes brightened faintly.  In his desolate position, Father Benwell was the one friend on whom he could rely.  Penrose was far away; the Lorings had helped to keep him deceived; Major Hynd had openly pitied and despised him as a victim to priestcraft.

“Can you go with me at any time?” he asked.  “Have you no duties that keep you in England?”

“My duties, Romayne, are already confided to other hands.”

“Then you have foreseen this?”

“I have thought it possible.  Your journey may be long, or it may be short—­you shall not go away alone.”