eceived
him and disobeyed him, and it was necessary that he should know the
facts. Life without a Bozzle would now have been to him a perfect
blank.

The Colonel had been to the parsonage at St. Diddulph's, and had
been admitted! As to that he had no doubt. Nor did he really doubt
that his wife had seen the visitor. He had sent his wife first
into a remote village on Dartmoor, and there she had been visited
by her--lover! How was he to use any other word? Iago;--oh, Iago!
The pity of it, Iago! Then, when she had learned that this was
discovered, she had left the retreat in which he had placed
her,--without permission from him,--and had taken herself to
the house of a relative of hers. Here she was visited again by
her--lover! Oh, Iago; the pity of it, Iago! And then there had been
between them an almost constant correspondence. So much he had
ascertained as fact; but he did not for a moment believe that Bozzle
had learned all the facts. There might be correspondence, or even
visits, of which Bozzle could learn nothing. How could Bozzle know
where Mrs. Trevelyan was during all those hours which Colonel Osborne
passed in London? That which he knew, he knew absolutely, and on
that he could act; but there was, of course, much of which he knew
nothing. Gradually the truth would unveil itself, and then he would
act. He would tear that Colonel into fragments, and throw his wife
from him with all the ignominy which the law made possible to him.

But in the meantime he wrote a letter to Mr. Outhouse. Colonel
Osborne, after all that had been said, had been admitted at the
parsonage, and Trevelyan was determined to let the clergyman know
what he thought about it. The oftener he turned the matter in his
mind, as he walked slowly up and down the piazza of St. Mark, the
more absurd it appeared to him to doubt that his wife had seen the
man. Of course she had seen him. He walked there nearly the whole
night, thinking of it, and as he dragged himself off at last to his
inn, had almost come to have but one desire,--namely, that he should
find her out, that the evidence should be conclusive, that it should
be proved, and so brought to an end. Then he would destroy her, and
destroy that man,--and afterwards destroy himself, so bitter to him
would be his ignominy. He almost revelled in the idea of the tragedy
he would make. It was three o'clock before he was in his bedroom, and
then he wrote his letter to Mr. Outhouse before he took him