“He declared himself quite overcome by what had happened, and said he had been away from town endeavouring to get at an understanding of the so-called evidence against him.  Possibly his inquiries might effect something; as yet they were useless.  He was very vague, and did not reassure me; I could not make him answer simple questions.  There is no honesty in the man.  Unfortunately I have warrant for saying this, on other accounts.  Believe me when I tell you that the life he leads makes him unworthy of your lightest thought.  He is utterly, hopelessly ignoble.  It is a hateful memory that I, who feel for you a deep respect and affection, was the cause of your coming to know him.

“But for the fear of embarrassing you, I should have brought this news, instead of writing it.  If you are still keeping your trouble a secret, I beseech you to ease your mind by seeing Dr. Derwent, and telling him everything.  It is plain that your defence must at once be put into legal hands.  Your brother is a man of the world, and much more than that; he will not, cannot, refuse to believe you, and his practical aid will comfort you in every way.  Do not try to hide the thing even from your daughter; she is of an age to share your suffering, and to alleviate it by her affection.  Believe me, silence is mistaken delicacy.  You are innocent; you are horribly wronged; have the courage of a just cause.  See Dr. Derwent at once; I implore you to do so, for your own sake, and for that of all your true friends.”

At the end, Irene drew a deep breath.

“He, certainly, is one of them,” she said.

“Of my true friends?  Indeed, he is.”

Again they were interrupted.  Olga announced the arrival of the nurse sent by Dr. Derwent to tend the invalid.  Thereupon Irene took leave of her aunt, promising to come again on the morrow, and went downstairs, where she exchanged a few words with her cousin.  They spoke of Piers Otway’s letter.

“Pleasant for us, isn’t it?” said Olga, with a dreary smile.  “Picture us entertaining friends who call!”

Irene embraced her gently, bade her be hopeful, and said good-bye.

At home again, she remembered that she had an engagement to dine out this evening, but the thought was insufferable.  Eustace, who was to have accompanied her, must go alone.  Having given the necessary orders, she went to her room, meaning to sit there until dinner.  But she grew restless and impatient; when the first bell rang, she made a hurried change of dress, and descended to the drawing-room.  An evening newspaper failed to hold her attention; with nervous movements, she walked hither and thither.  It was a great relief to her when the door opened and her father came in.

Contrary to his custom, the Doctor had not dressed.  He bore a wearied countenance, but at the sight of Irene tried to smooth away the lines of disgust.

“It was all I could do to get here by dinner-time.  Excuse me, Mam’zelle Wren; they’re the clothes of an honest working-man.”