put in confinement for knowing his Secret, and that
she meant to open her lips and ruin him, when the right time came.

She may have said the same thing to you, when you thoughtlessly
assisted her escape. She certainly said it (as I heard last summer) to
the unfortunate woman who married our sweet-tempered, nameless
gentleman lately deceased. If either you, or that unlucky lady, had
questioned my daughter closely, and had insisted on her explaining what
she really meant, you would have found her lose all her self-importance
suddenly, and get vacant, and restless, and confused--you would have
discovered that I am writing nothing here but the plain truth. She
knew that there was a Secret--she knew who was connected with it--she
knew who would suffer by its being known--and beyond that, whatever
airs of importance she may have given herself, whatever crazy boasting
she may have indulged in with strangers, she never to her dying day
knew more.

Have I satisfied your curiosity? I have taken pains enough to satisfy
it at any rate. There is really nothing else I have to tell you about
myself or my daughter. My worst responsibilities, so far as she was
concerned, were all over when she was secured in the Asylum. I had a
form of letter relating to the circumstances under which she was shut
up, given me to write, in answer to one Miss Halcombe, who was curious
in the matter, and who must have heard plenty of lies about me from a
certain tongue well accustomed to the telling of the same. And I did
what I could afterwards to trace my runaway daughter, and prevent her
from doing mischief by making inquiries myself in the neighbourhood
where she was falsely reported to have been seen. But these, and other
trifles like them, are of little or no interest to you after what you
have heard already.

So far, I have written in the friendliest possible spirit. But I
cannot close this letter without adding a word here of serious
remonstrance and reproof, addressed to yourself.

In the course of your personal interview with me, you audaciously
referred to my late daughter's parentage on the father's side, as if
that parentage was a matter of doubt. This was highly improper and
very ungentlemanlike on your part! If we see each other again,
remember, if you please, that I will allow no liberties to be taken
with my reputation, and that the moral atmosphere of Welmingham (to use
a favourite expression of my friend the rector's) must