When he had said this, without waiting to hear Mr. Fazakerly’s amazed exclamations, Edgar walked quietly to the other end of the table and offered his arm to Clare. Before she took it, she joined her hands together, and looked up beseechingly in his face. He shook his head, with a tender smile at her, and drew her hand within his arm. This dumb show was eagerly observed by Arthur Arden at her left hand. By this time he was so lost in a maze that he no longer permitted himself to think. What was the meaning of it all? Was the boy a fool to give in, and throw up his arms at once? He had not, it was evident, even spoken to Fazakerly first, as any man in his senses would have done. For once in his life Arthur was moved to a disinterested sentiment. Even yet, after all that had been said, he had no real hope that any advantage was coming to himself; and something moved him to interfere to save an unnecessary exposure. A certain compassion for this candid foolish boy--a compassion mingled with some contempt--had arisen in his heart. “Arden,” he said hastily, “look here, talk it over with Fazakerly first. I don’t know what cock-and-a-bull story you have got hold of, but before you make a solemn business of it, for Heaven’s sake talk it over with Fazakerly first.” Edgar put out his hand, without at first saying a word. It took him nearly half a minute (a long interval at that crisis) to steady his voice. “Thanks,” he said. “It is no cock-and-bull story; but I thank you for thinking, and saying that. Come and hear what it is--and, for your generosity, thanks.” “It was not generosity,” answered Arthur, under his breath. He was abashed and confounded by the undeserved gratitude. But he made no further attempt to detain the procession, which set out towards the library. Edgar placed Clare in a chair when he had reached it. He put her beside himself, and with a movement of the hand invited the others to seat themselves. The table had been prepared, the lamp was burning on it, and before one of the chairs was already laid a packet of letters directed to B. Fazakerly, Esq. Edgar meant that his evidence should be seen before he told his tale. “Will you take possession of these,” he said, seating himself at the end of the table. “These are my proofs of what I am going to tell you; and it is so strange that you will need proofs. My sister--I mean Miss Arden--now seated beside me--found these papers. They have thrown the strangest light upon my own life, and upon that of my predecessor here.” “Your father?” said Mr. Fazakerly, with a glance of dismay.