“Her’s cawd Tilder.”

“Is she Rawdon’s wife?  Speak, man!”

“Naw, nawt az aw niver heerd.”

“What was her name before he—­brought her there?”

“Aw donno, but t’lahd’s cawd Mawnta Nehgull.”

“O my God!” cried the detective, as he fell back in his chair, and seemed to lose all power of speech.

“Come away, Nash,” said the Squire, taking one arm of the stricken man, while Mr. Errol, handing his notes to the lawyer, took the other.  They led him tenderly to the office, where Carruthers forced a glass of wine upon him.  Nash revived, and begged that the door might be closed and locked.

“I may never have a chance to tell this again, so I want to tell it to you two, and to you alone.  My real name is Nagle, not Nash.  I was born in Hamilton, where my father was a wheelwright.  I got a good schooling, and went into a lawyer’s office, for father wanted me to become a lawyer.  But I got reading detective books, and did a few sharp things for the firm that got me into notice and brought me private detective business.  So I got on till I rose to be what I am, such as it is.  When my parents died they left my sister Matilda in my care.  I was only twenty then, and she, eighteen, a bright, pretty girl.  She kept my rooms for me, but I was away most of the time, so she became tired of it, as we had no relations and hardly any friends we cared to associate with.  She insisted on leaving me and learning the millinery in Toronto; so I had to let her go.  I saw her often, and frequently sent her money.  She got good wages at last and dressed well, and seemed to have respectable people about her.  Suddenly her letters stopped.  I went to her place of business, and heard that she had left to be married to a rich man in the country; but nobody, not even her closest acquaintances among the girls, knew where, or who the man was.  I advertised, neglected business to hunt up every clue, travelled all over the country looking for my lost sister, promised my dead parents never to marry till I found her.  And at last, at last, O God!  I have found Matilda, and you know where, a woman without name or character, the victim of the greatest scoundrel unhung, the associate of brutal criminals, the unlawful mother of an idiot boy!  No! no more wine, Squire, not a drop.  I want a steady head and a strong hand this morning more than any day of my life.  Open the door and the windows now, please; and give me a little air.”

Nash, for so he may still be called, sent Coristine away to Talfourd’s for his bundle, and Miss Du Plessis, having handed the note for Rawdon to the dominie, accompanied the hero of the gloves in the Squire’s buggy, so as to lose no time.  Wilkinson was warned not to post the letter before his comrade’s return.  While waiting in the office, Mr. Errol, whose heart was deeply touched, locked the door again, saying:  “John, let us kneel down and pray our Heavenly Father to comfort our friend in his great sorrow, and bless him in his present work.”  The Squire knelt with the minister, and the detective fell on his knees beside him, their hearts joining in the quiet but earnest supplications of the good man of religion.  When they rose from their knees, Nash, almost tearfully, pressed their hands and bade God bless them.