of mind--"

"Stow your agonies of mind. We'll begin with those you've caused.
What was Letcher's game?"

"His right name is Leicester, sir. He is Mr. Plinlimmon's cousin
--or second cousin, rather--though Mr. Plinlimmon don't know it."
Mr. Whitmore, with his gloss rubbed off, was fast returning to his
native style even in speech. You could as little mistake him now for
a gentleman as for a priest.

"And how does that bear on your pretty plot?"

"I will tell you, gentlemen: for when George Leicester forced me to
it--and it was only under threats so terrible that you would hardly
believe--"

"In other words, he knew enough to hang you."

"It was terrorism, gentlemen: I was his slave, body and soul.
But when he came and proposed this, and never told me what he was to
get by it--for the plan was all his, and I stood to win nothing,
absolutely nothing--I determined to find out for myself, thinking
(you see) that by getting at his secret I might put myself on level
terms."

"You mean, that you might discover enough to hang _him_. I hope you
succeeded."

"To this extent, Mr. Rogers--George Leicester and Archibald
Plinlimmon's mother were first cousins. There were three Leicesters
to begin with, as you might say--Sir Charles, who was head of the
family and is living yet, though close on eighty, and two younger
brothers, Archibald and Randall, both dead. Sir Charles was a
bachelor, and for years his brothers lived with him in a sort of
dependence. Towards middle-age they both married--I was told, by his
orders--and near about at the same time. At any rate each married
and each had a child--Archibald a daughter and Randall a son.
Archibald's daughter--he died two years after her birth--was brought
up by her uncle, Sir Charles, who made a pet of her; but she spoilt
her prospects by marrying a poor soldier, Captain Plinlimmon.
She ran away with him. And the old man would never speak to her
again, nor see her, but cut her out of his will."

"I see. And she--this daughter of Archibald Leicester--was
Archibald's Plinlimmon's mother. Is she living?"

"Mrs. Plinlimmon died some years ago," I put in.

"Hey? What do _you_ know about all this?" asked Mr. Rogers.

"A little, sir," I answered.

"But what little you know--does it bear this man's story out?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's as well to have some check on it, for I'd trust him just so far
as I could fling him by the eyebrows."

"There was no profit for me i