A new light broke in upon Lucius Davoren’s mind. He remembered all that had been strange in Lucille’s manner and conduct since the evening when they went up to the loft and he saw the opening of the attic door. He remembered her anxiety on that occasion—her agitation on every subsequent recurrence to the same subject—her impatient denial of any foundation for his suspicions about the Winchers—how she fell unconscious at his feet when he plainly declared his discovery; and last of all, that fever in which the mind rather than the body had been affected. He recalled her wandering words, in which the name of father had been so often reiterated, and, most significant of all, that strange appeal which Mrs. Milderson had repeated to him, ‘You couldn’t be so wicked as to poison your poor old father.’ To whom but a son could those words have been spoken? And could delirium suggest so deep a horror if it were utterly baseless? ‘No, it was memory, and not a mind distraught, that shaped those fearful words,’ thought Lucius. He was silent for some time, pondering this new view of the question. Jacob Wincher waited patiently, his poor old head shaking a little from the agitation of the foregoing conversation. Jacob Wincher’s good lady stood with her arms folded, like a statue of female stoicism, as if it were a point of honour with her not to move a muscle. ‘Well, Mr. Wincher,’ said Lucius at last, ‘it is not for me to decide whether you are guilty or innocent. You will hardly deny that circumstances conspired to condemn you. I did what I felt to be my duty when I advised Mr. Sivewright to dismiss you.’ ‘After five-and-twenty years, and never a fault to find with neither of us,’ interjected Mrs. Wincher. ‘The result has in a considerable measure justified that act. The attempt to poison a helpless old man has made no further progress.’ Jacob Wincher cast up his eyes in mute appeal to heaven, but said nothing. ‘We could have poisoned him in Bond-street, if we’d wanted to it,’ protested Mrs. Wincher. ‘It would only ’a been to cook his bit of minced weal or Irish stew in a verding-greasy copper saucepan, and all the juries as ever sat couldn’t have brought it home to us.’ ‘Now, if you are, as you allege, an innocent man,’ pursued Lucius thoughtfully, ‘you will be glad to give me the utmost assistance. I have made a discovery that may in some measure affect this question. Ferdinand Sivewright is alive, and probably in England!’ ‘Then it was he who stole that silver!’ cried the old man, starting up with sudden energy. ‘Is not that a hasty conclusion?’