“Stop! hear the end of it.  Of course I knew that we couldn’t carry out this divorce-threat, without its being the death of my father; but I thought a little quiet bullying on my part might do Mr. Shopkeeper Sherwin some good.  And I was right.  You never saw a man sit sorer on the sharp edges of a dilemma than he did.  I stuck to my point in spite of everything; silence and money, or exposure and divorce—­just which he pleased.  ‘I deny every one of your infamous imputations,’ said he.  ‘That’s not the question,’ said I.  ‘I’ll go to your father,’ said he.  ‘You won’t be let in,’ said I.  ‘I’ll write to him,’ said he.  ’He won’t receive your letter,’ said I. There we came to a pull-up. He began to stammer, and I refreshed myself with a pinch of snuff.  Finding it wouldn’t do, he threw off the Roman at last, and resumed the Tradesman.  ’Even supposing I consented to this abominable compromise, what is to become of my daughter?’ he asked.  ’Just what becomes of other people who have comfortable annuities to live on,’ I answered.  ’Affection for my deeply-wronged child half inclines me to consult her wishes, before we settle anything—­I’ll go up-stairs,’ said he.  ’And I’ll wait for you down here,’ said I.”

“Did he object to that?”

“Not he.  He went up-stairs, and in a few minutes ran down again, with an open letter in his hand, looking as if the devil was after him before his time.  At the last three or four stairs, he tripped, caught at the bannisters, dropped the letter over them in doing so, tumbled into the passage in such a fury and fright that he looked like a madman, tore his hat off a peg, and rushed out.  I just heard him say his daughter should come back, if he put a straight waistcoat on her, as he passed the door.  Between his tumble, his passion, and his hurry, he never thought of coming back for the letter he had dropped over the bannisters.  I picked it up before I went away, suspecting it might be good evidence on our side; and I was right.  Read it yourself; Basil; you have every moral and legal claim on the precious document—­and here it is.”

I took the letter, and read (in Mannion’s handwriting) these words, dated from the hospital:—­

“I have received your last note, and cannot wonder that you are getting impatient under restraint.  But, remember, that if you had not acted as I warned you beforehand to act in case of accidents—­if you had not protested innocence to your father, and preserved total silence towards your mother; if you had not kept in close retirement, behaving like a domestic martyr, and avoiding, in your character of a victim, all voluntary mention of your husband’s name—­your position might have been a very awkward one.  Not being able to help you, the only thing I could do was to teach you how to help yourself.  I gave you the lesson, and you have been wise enough to profit by it.