He stopped suddenly, as suddenly as thought his mouth had been shut by the jerk of a string.  We waited; when he went on he spoke with a caution that was new to him, as though he wished to forestall our asking any questions: 

“I am not at liberty to mention anything of my mission; where it was to, what it was for, or anything at all about it.  Such matters are in confidence between Mr. Trelawny and myself; I am pledged to absolute secrecy.”

He paused, and an embarrassed look crept over his face.  Suddenly he said: 

“You are sure, Miss Trelawny, your Father is not well enough to see me today?”

A look of wonderment was on her face in turn.  But it cleared at once;—­ she stood up, saying in a tone in which dignity and graciousness were blended: 

“Come and see for yourself!” She moved toward her father’s room; he followed, and I brought up the rear.

Mr. Corbeck entered the sick-room as though he knew it.  There is an unconscious attitude or bearing to persons in new surroundings which there is no mistaking.  Even in his anxiety to see his powerful friend, he glanced for a moment round the room, as at a familiar place.  Then all his attention became fixed on the bed.  I watched him narrowly, for somehow I felt that on this man depended much of our enlightenment regarding the strange matter in which we were involved.

It was not that I doubted him.  The man was of transparent honesty; it was this very quality which we had to dread.  He was of that courageous, fixed trueness to his undertaking, that if he should deem it his duty to guard a secret he would do it to the last.  The case before us was, at least, an unusual one; and it would, consequently, require more liberal recognition of bounds of the duty of secrecy than would hold under ordinary conditions.  To us, ignorance was helplessness.  If we could learn anything of the past we might at least form some idea of the conditions antecedent to the attack; and might, so, achieve some means of helping the patient to recovery.  There were curios which might be removed. . . .  My thoughts were beginning to whirl once again; I pulled myself up sharply and watched.  There was a look of infinite pity on the sun-stained, rugged face as he gazed at his friend, lying so helpless.  The sternness of Mr. Trelawny’s face had not relaxed in sleep; but somehow it made the helplessness more marked.  It would not have troubled one to see a weak or an ordinary face under such conditions; but this purposeful, masterful man, lying before us wrapped in impenetrable sleep, had all the pathos of a great ruin.  The sight was not a new one to us; but I could see that Miss Trelawny, like myself, was moved afresh by it in the presence of the stranger.  Mr. Corbeck’s face grew stern.  All the pity died away; and in its stead came a grim, hard look which boded ill for whoever had been the cause of this mighty downfall.  This look in turn gave