Miss Jethro lifted her veil for the first time, and eyed him searchingly. “I believe I can trust you,” she said. “Now listen! The one consideration on which I consent to open my lips, is consideration for Miss Emily’s tranquillity. Promise me absolute secrecy, on your word of honor.” He gave the promise. “I want to know one thing, first,” Miss Jethro proceeded. “Did she tell you--as she once told me--that her father had died of heart-complaint?” “Yes.” “Did you put any questions to her?” “I asked how long ago it was.” “And she told you?” “She told me.” “You wish to know, Doctor Allday, what discoveries Miss Emily may yet make, among her aunt’s papers. Judge for yourself, when I tell you that she has been deceived about her father’s death.” “Do you mean that he is still living?” “I mean that she has been deceived--purposely deceived--about the _manner_ of his death.” “Who was the wretch who did it?” “You are wronging the dead, sir! The truth can only have been concealed out of the purest motives of love and pity. I don’t desire to disguise the conclusion at which I have arrived after what I have heard from yourself. The person responsible must be Miss Emily’s aunt--and the old servant must have been in her confidence. Remember! You are bound in honor not to repeat to any living creature what I have just said.” The doctor followed Miss Jethro to the door. “You have not yet told me,” he said, “_how_ her father died.” “I have no more to tell you.” With those words she left him. He rang for his servant. To wait until the hour at which he was accustomed to go out, might be to leave Emily’s peace of mind at the mercy of an accident. “I am going to the cottage,” he said. “If anybody wants me, I shall be back in a quarter of an hour.” On the point of leaving the house, he remembered that Emily would probably expect him to return the Handbill. As he took it up, the first lines caught his eye: he read the date at which the murder had been committed, for the second time. On a sudden the ruddy color left his face. “Good God!” he cried, “her father was murdered--and that woman was concerned in it.” Following the impulse that urged him, he secured the Handbill in his pocketbook--snatched up the card which his patient had presented as her introduction--and instantly left the house. He called the first cab that passed him, and drove to Miss Jethro’s lodgings. “Gone”--was the servant’s answer when he inquired for her. He insisted on speaking to the landlady. “Hardly ten minutes have passed,” he said, “since she left my house.” “Hardly ten minutes have passed,” the landlady replied, “since that message was brought here by a boy.” The message had been evidently written in great haste: “I am unexpectedly obliged to leave London. A bank note is inclosed in payment of my debt to you. I will send for my luggage.” The doctor withdrew.