"Yes," I observed, "I suppose all sorts of absurd bunkum is talked about religious work among the London poor. Poor Roddy Morgan used to hold a similar opinion to yourself. He was an ardent supporter of a philanthropic movement which had its headquarters somewhere in the Mile End Road." "Ah! poor Roddy!" he sighed. "His was, indeed, a sad end. That such a good, honest, upright fellow should have been murdered like that was truly a most melancholy circumstance." "Murdered!" I exclaimed. "How do you know he was murdered?" There had been no suggestion in the papers of foul play, therefore my friend's declaration was extremely remarkable. "I know the truth!" he answered, very gravely. "What do you mean?" I exclaimed, starting forward quickly. "Are you actually aware of the cause of poor Roddy's death? Tell me." "No, Clifton," he responded, shaking his head, as rising he stood determinedly before me, his brows knit in a thoughtful attitude. "A confession made to me by one who seeks the forgiveness of God I may not divulge. Remember," he added in a firm voice, "remember that I am a clergyman; and confidences reposed in me I must not abuse. Therefore do not seek the truth from me. My lips are sealed." CHAPTER ELEVEN. PURELY CONFIDENTIAL. Jack Yelverton's declaration held me dumb. He knew the truth, yet could not divulge, because any confession made to him by one who sought spiritual guidance was sacred. I pressed him to tell me something which might give me a clue to the truth, but he only grew additionally grave, and answered-- "Roddy was my friend, as well as yours, Clifton. If it were possible, don't you think that I would bring the guilty to punishment? Ah! don't speak of it," he sighed. "In this affair I've suffered enough. If you knew how the possession of this secret oppresses me, you would be silent on that sad topic always." I said nothing. His face had grown haggard and drawn, and I could see that his conscience was torn by a tumult of emotions. It was certainly extraordinary, I reflected, as I smoked on in silence, while he stood leaning against the mantel-shelf with his eyes fixed upon the opposite wall. That day I had again met after years of separation this man who had once been among my best friends, and he was actually in possession of the secret which I had been longing through those winter months to learn--the secret of the tragic death of poor Roddy Morgan. But he was a clergyman. Had he been a member of any other profession he might, in the interests of justice, betray the murderer--for there was no doubt now that Roddy had been murdered--but he was a servant of his Master, and words spoken in confidence into his ear by the penitent were as the secrets of the Roman Catholic confessional. From him I could hope for no word of the truth. At last he spoke again, telling me that the real reason he had accepted a country curacy was because of this terrible secret ever oppressing him.