the engraver who employed me—­by these, and other trifling attentions like them, we composed her and steadied her, and hoped all things, as cheerfully as we could from time and care, and love that never neglected and never despaired of her.  But to take her mercilessly from seclusion and repose—­to confront her with strangers, or with acquaintances who were little better than strangers—­to rouse the painful impressions of her past life which we had so carefully hushed to rest—­this, even in her own interests, we dared not do.  Whatever sacrifices it cost, whatever long, weary, heart-breaking delays it involved, the wrong that had been inflicted on her, if mortal means could grapple it, must be redressed without her knowledge and without her help.

This resolution settled, it was next necessary to decide how the first risk should be ventured, and what the first proceedings should be.

After consulting with Marian, I resolved to begin by gathering together as many facts as could be collected—­then to ask the advice of Mr. Kyrle (whom we knew we could trust), and to ascertain from him, in the first instance, if the legal remedy lay fairly within our reach.  I owed it to Laura’s interests not to stake her whole future on my own unaided exertions, so long as there was the faintest prospect of strengthening our position by obtaining reliable assistance of any kind.

The first source of information to which I applied was the journal kept at Blackwater Park by Marian Halcombe.  There were passages in this diary relating to myself which she thought it best that I should not see.  Accordingly, she read to me from the manuscript, and I took the notes I wanted as she went on.  We could only find time to pursue this occupation by sitting up late at night.  Three nights were devoted to the purpose, and were enough to put me in possession of all that Marian could tell.

My next proceeding was to gain as much additional evidence as I could procure from other people without exciting suspicion.  I went myself to Mrs. Vesey to ascertain if Laura’s impression of having slept there was correct or not.  In this case, from consideration for Mrs. Vesey’s age and infirmity, and in all subsequent cases of the same kind from considerations of caution, I kept our real position a secret, and was always careful to speak of Laura as “the late Lady Glyde.”

Mrs. Vesey’s answer to my inquiries only confirmed the apprehensions which I had previously felt.  Laura had certainly written to say she would pass the night under the roof of her old friend—­but she had never been near the house.

Her mind in this instance, and, as I feared, in other instances besides, confusedly presented to her something which she had only intended to do in the false light of something which she had really done.  The unconscious contradiction of herself was easy to account for in this way—­but it was likely to lead to serious results.  It was a stumble on the threshold at starting—­it was a flaw in the evidence which told fatally against us.