"They will be coming in to me now," said Sir Thomas, wailing like a
child; "now, when you are gone; and what am I to say to them?"

"I would say nothing at present; nothing to-day."

"And my wife?" he asked, again. Through this interview he studiously
called her his wife. "Is--is she to know it?"

"When we are assured that this man's story is true, Sir Thomas, she
must know it. That will probably be very soon,--in a day or two. Till
then I think you had better tell her nothing."

"And what shall I say to her?"

"Say nothing. I think it probable that she will not ask any
questions. If she does, tell her that the business between you and me
is not yet over. I will tell your son that at present he had better
not speak to you on the subject of my visit here." And then he again
took the hand of the unfortunate gentleman, and having pressed it
with more tenderness than seemed to belong to him, he left the room.

He left the room, and hurried into the hall and out of the house; but
as he did so he could see that he was watched by Lady Fitzgerald. She
was on the alert to go to her husband as soon as she should know that
he was alone. Of what then took place between those two we need say
nothing, but will wander forth for a while with Mr. Prendergast into
the wide-spreading park.

Mr. Prendergast had been used to hard work all his life, but he had
never undergone a day of severer toil than that through which he had
just past. Nor was it yet over. He had laid it down in a broad way as
his opinion that the whole truth in this matter should be declared
to the world, let the consequences be what they might; and to this
opinion Sir Thomas had acceded without a word of expostulation. But
in this was by no means included all that portion of the burden which
now fell upon Mr. Prendergast's shoulders. It would be for him to
look into the evidence, and then it would be for him also--heavy and
worst task of all--to break the matter to Lady Fitzgerald.

As he sauntered out into the park, to wander about for half an hour
in the dusk of the evening, his head was throbbing with pain. The
family friend in this instance had certainly been severely taxed in
the exercise of his friendship. And what was he to do next? How was
he to conduct himself that evening in the family circle, knowing, as
he so well did, that his coming there was to bring destruction upon
them all? "Be tender to him," Aunt Letty had said, little knowing
how great a ca