A horrible suspicion that Magdalen also knew darted across his mind. It was obvious to him that he had broken up a conference, a conspiracy. His bitter face darkened still more. "I don't know what you are all plotting about so early in the morning," he said. "I must apologise for interrupting you. I seem to be always in the way now-a-days. People are always whispering behind my back. But I have come over to see Michael. I want a few plain words with him without delay, and I intend to have them." "That is well," said the Bishop, "because you are about to have them. We were speaking of you when you came in." "I wish to see Michael alone," said Wentworth, stung by the Bishop's instant admission of being in his brother's confidence. He looked only at Michael, who, his eyes on the ground, was leaning white as death against the mantelpiece. "Do you wish us to go, Michael?" said the Bishop. "I wish you all to stay," he said, raising his eyes for a moment. His hand shook so violently that he knocked over a little ornament on the mantelpiece, and it fell with a crash into the fireplace. His voice shook, too, but his eyes were steady. His great physical weakness, poignantly apparent though it was, seemed a thing apart from him, like a cloak which he might discard at any moment. "I cannot say all I have to say before others," said Wentworth fiercely, "even if they are all his confederates in trying to keep me in the dark, all, that is, except Fay. We know by experience that she can shield a man who has something to hide even from his best friends. We know by experience that dust can be thrown in her unsuspecting eyes." "You have been kept in the dark," said the Bishop with compassion; "you have not been fairly treated, Wentworth, you have much to forgive." In spite of himself Wentworth was awed. He had a sudden sense of impending calamity. He looked again at Michael. Michael's hand shook. His whole body shook. His lips trembled impotently. Wentworth sickened with shame. His love was wounded to the very depths to see his brother like this, as it had never been wounded even by the first sight of him in his convict's blouse. "I always trusted you," he said with a groan, putting up his hand so as to shut out that tottering figure. "I don't know what miserable secret you're keeping from me, and I don't care. It isn't _that_ I mind. It is that--whatever it was, however disgraceful it was, you should have kept it from me. God knows I only wanted to help you. Surely, surely, Michael, you might have trusted me. What have I done that you should treat me as if I were an enemy? I thought I was your friend." No one spoke.