“I am a Barrister.  It is not, however, in that capacity I am here; but simply as a friend of your daughter.  It was probably her knowledge of my being a lawyer which first determined her to ask me to come when she thought you had been murdered.  Afterwards she was good enough to consider me to be a friend, and to allow me to remain in accordance with your expressed wish that someone should remain to watch.”

Mr. Trelawny was manifestly a man of quick thought, and of few words.  He gazed at me keenly as I spoke, and his piercing eyes seemed to read my thought.  To my relief he said no more on the subject just then, seeming to accept my words in simple faith.  There was evidently in his own mind some cause for the acceptance deeper than my own knowledge.  His eyes flashed, and there was an unconscious movement of the mouth—­it could hardly be called a twitch—­which betokened satisfaction.  He was following out some train of reasoning in his own mind.  Suddenly he said: 

“She thought I had been murdered!  Was that last night?”

“No! four days ago.”  He seemed surprised.  Whilst he had been speaking the first time he had sat up in bed; now he made a movement as though he would jump out.  With an effort, however, he restrained himself; leaning back on his pillows he said quietly: 

“Tell me all about it!  All you know!  Every detail!  Omit nothing!  But stay; first lock the door!  I want to know, before I see anyone, exactly how things stand.”

Somehow his last words made my heart leap.  “Anyone!” He evidently accepted me, then, as an exception.  In my present state of feeling for his daughter, this was a comforting thought.  I felt exultant as I went over to the door and softly turned the key.  When I came back I found him sitting up again.  He said: 

“Go on!”

Accordingly, I told him every detail, even of the slightest which I could remember, of what had happened from the moment of my arrival at the house.  Of course I said nothing of my feeling towards Margaret, and spoke only concerning those things already within his own knowledge.  With regard to Corbeck, I simply said that he had brought back some lamps of which he had been in quest.  Then I proceeded to tell him fully of their loss, and of their re-discovery in the house.

He listened with a self-control which, under the circumstances, was to me little less than marvellous.  It was impassiveness, for at times his eyes would flash or blaze, and the strong fingers of his uninjured hand would grip the sheet, pulling it into far-extending wrinkles.  This was most noticeable when I told him of the return of Corbeck, and the finding of the lamps in the boudoir.  At times he spoke, but only a few words, and as if unconsciously in emotional comment.  The mysterious parts, those which had most puzzled us, seemed to have no special interest for him; he seemed to know them already.  The