I knew it from his own lips: how, a few months after the married couple had returned to England, an Italian courier, discharged in Aosta for drunkenness, had persuaded Geoletti to profit by his knowledge of London, and go there with him; how, from Soho, the potential blackmailer had taken his bearings, and, by the aid of compatriots, run his quarry to earth, and forced an interview upon him and revealed his knowledge and his purpose; how Mr Dalston, temporising a moment, had referred him, for final settlement, to the house of a certain doctor in Kennington, to which he had gone by secret appointment and with what fatal results to himself. The listener needed only these links in the chain of evidence to complete the story for him; and, when they had been supplied, a deep and tragic silence fell upon the room. Presently, not raising his head, he motioned to the narrator, a gesture of dismissal. “Go,” I whispered to Geoletti, “and return to the lodge.” I stood, when we were alone, a moment in indecision; then crossed the room softly. “If the hurt has come from _my_ hand, sir,” I said, “you will know why I ask you to forgive me for it, will you not?” He was muttering to himself; he hardly seemed to notice me. “My God! poor Charlie--my God! poor Charlie”--over and over again. Suddenly he got stiffly to his feet. “Hush! Didn’t I hear the boy crying?” he said, listening in a startled way. “He’s left to me yet--he sha’n’t be disinherited--his mother must come back to me and end all this. There was never a woman so beautiful or so foolish in all the world.” He seemed to recollect himself, and me, and my question; and now he answered that obliquely, not looking at me, but fingering some papers on his desk. “You know your course, Gaskett? It’s obvious enough, I should think.” The formal address, the reluctance of his manner, woke a strange chill in me. “I think so, sir,” I said, withdrawing a little. “It is to visit Lady Skene’s mother again, and face her with a new and sufficient reason for confessing the truth.” He drew in his breath softly, as if to a wince of pain; then turned to canvass me fully for the first time. “Well,” he said, “you have hit me pretty hard in my old age, Gaskett; and you’ll not be surprised that I find your hand a bit stunning. You must grant me to-night to think it all over; and to-morrow I’ll give you my answer. Come up at midday. The man’s safe with you, I suppose. That’s all that it’s essential to ensure for the moment. I shall not come in to dinner. Good-night!” The blows to which he had been subjected had tried him, no doubt, to the very limit of endurance; yet, somehow, this was not the sequel to them that I had expected. My heart was like a stone in me. I turned and went out of the room without another word. And, then--sweet balm in Gilead!