Trembling all over, I was afraid for two or three moments that I was about to relapse into unconsciousness, and that I did not do so I can only attribute to the amazing discovery that followed. For no sooner had Mr. Lorton taken his seat than the petrifying fact became manifest that his fellow-criminal was not only married herself but _was actually the wife of his brother Chrysostom_.[5] Afterwards, as was inevitable perhaps, I utterly broke down, but not until I had made full notes of their conversation, learned that Mrs. Chrysostom was supposed to be out shopping, and observed them kiss one another several times. Then, pale and distraught, blinded with tears, and scarcely indeed able to suppress my sobs, I hurried home, and within less than an hour had buried my face in my father’s waistcoat. Footnote 5: I am happy to say that this pernicious family is now completely extinct. “Oh, father,” I cried, “father,” and though he had misinterpreted my convulsions, I shall never forget the tenderness with which he signalled to my mother to fetch a basin as quickly as possible. Nor was he less sympathetic when I had succeeded in convincing him that my paroxysms were spiritual rather than gastric, for smoothing my hair with his unoccupied hand, he at once readjusted my head to its former position. “My poor boy,” he said, “my poor Augustus. Tell me what’s happened. Take your time. There, there now. I’ve sent your mother away. But she’s left the basin here in case.” “Oh, sin,” I cried, “sin—unbelievable sin in Greenwich Park.” I felt my father’s abdomen give a violent heave. “In Greenwich Park?” he asked. “Never?” “Oh, yes,” I cried, “yes. Would that it were no. But it was not no.” My father bent over me, patting my head. “My poor boy,” he said. “What sort of sin?” “Oh, the worst,” I said, “the worst. It was Mr. Lorton and Mrs. Chrysostom.” “Good Heavens,” said my father, “Mr. Lorton?” “Mr. Septimus,” I said, “and Mrs. Chrysostom.” “But what were they doing?” asked my father. Burning all over, I replied that they had been kissing. “Kissing,” he said, “kissing? You mean to tell me you saw them kissing?” “Oh, father,” I said, “several times, with mutual expressions of passionate regard.” I had now reared my head from the lower part of his waistcoat, and it would have been hard to say which of us was the deeper scarlet. Then my father covered his eyes. “Mutual expressions?” he whispered. “Do you remember them?” With a shaking hand I offered him my pocket-book. “They are there,” I said. “I wrote them down.” Like a tornado he tore them from my grasp. “My darling,” he read. “Oh, Septimus. Give me another. Well, just one. My only darling. Light of my heart. Do you know what your lips are like? No, tell me.” Then a great light shone in my father’s eyes. “Providence has delivered them,” he said, “into our hands.” For a moment I was silent. Then I rose to my feet. “I had rather thought,” I said, “that might be the case.”