trying to deafen himself to it.  I ran to the door to call for help.  He stopped me; he spoke in faint, gasping tones, forbidding me to call any one in to witness what he suffered.  It was not the first time, he said; it would soon be over.  If I had not courage to remain with him I could go, and return when he was himself again.  I so pitied him that I found the courage to remain.  When it was over he took me by the hand, and thanked me.  I had stayed by him like a friend, he said, and like a friend he would treat me.  Sooner or later (those were his exact words) I must be taken into his confidence—­and it should be now.  He told me his melancholy story.  I implore you, Father, don’t ask me to repeat it!  Be content if I tell you the effect of it on myself.  The one hope, the one consolation for him, is in our holy religion.  With all my heart I devote myself to his conversion—­and, in my inmost soul, I feel the conviction that I shall succeed!’

“To this effect, and in this tone, Penrose spoke.  I abstained from pressing him to reveal Romayne’s confession.  The confession is of no consequence to us.  You know how the moral force of Arthur’s earnestness and enthusiasm fortifies his otherwise weak character.  I, too, believe he will succeed.

“To turn for a moment to another subject.  You are already informed that there is a woman in our way.  I have my own idea of the right method of dealing with this obstacle when it shows itself more plainly.  For the present, I need only assure you that neither this woman nor any woman shall succeed in her designs on Romayne, if I can prevent it.”

Having completed his report in these terms, Father Benwell reverted to the consideration of his proposed inquiries into the past history of Stella’s life.

Reflection convinced him that it would be unwise to attempt, no matter how guardedly, to obtain the necessary information from Lord Loring or his wife.  If he assumed, at his age, to take a strong interest in a Protestant young lady, who had notoriously avoided him, they would certainly feel surprise—­and surprise might, in due course of development, turn to suspicion.

There was but one other person under Lord Loring’s roof to whom he could address himself—­and that person was the housekeeper.  As an old servant, possessing Lady Loring’s confidence, she might prove a source of information on the subject of Lady Loring’s fair friend; and, as a good Catholic, she would feel flattered by the notice of the spiritual director of the household.

“It may not be amiss,” thought Father Benwell, “if I try the housekeeper.”

CHAPTER VI.

THE ORDER OF THE DISHES.

WHEN Miss Notman assumed the post of housekeeper in Lady Loring’s service, she was accurately described as “a competent and respectable person”; and was praised, with perfect truth, for her incorruptible devotion to the interests of her employers.  On its weaker side, her character was represented by the wearing of a youthful wig, and the erroneous conviction that she still possessed a fine figure.  The ruling idea in her narrow little mind was the idea of her own dignity.  Any offense offered in this direction oppressed her memory for days together, and found its way outward in speech to any human being whose attention she could secure.