‘You are quite mistaken,’ he continued hurriedly; ‘I am not the person you mentioned, nor have I ever heard the name before. I am a tradesman from the North of England, and am only passing through town. I hoped to hear better news from you, but it is of no consequence. I cannot stay any longer. Good-afternoon!’ And then, his cunning coming to his aid, he added,-- ‘I have been only trying to see how far I could go with you. A friend told me I could get absolution for every sin in the calendar, so I thought I would make up a story about a murder. I suppose it was very wrong of me, but we had a bet on the subject, and I wanted to prove to him that I was right. I trust you will forgive me.’ As he said the last words, he left the confessional, and prepared to fly from the church. But, as he did so, the door which admitted the confessor to his portion of the confessional also opened, and the face of Frederick Walcheren looked forth from it. Hindes turned involuntarily, and met his gaze, and with a low cry turned round and literally ran out of the sacred building. CHAPTER VI. He had known so little of Frederick Walcheren before Jenny’s death, and he had so purposely avoided thrusting himself in his way afterwards, that he had not had the slightest intimation that he had entered the Catholic Church as a priest. The discovery was as great a shock to him as his revelation had been to his auditor. How he ever got back to Hampstead on that eventful afternoon, he never knew. His head and heart were in as rapid a whirl as they had been when he committed the murder; the murder which, he now made sure, would, sooner or later, land him on the gallows. There was but one chance for him--the alleged secrecy of the confessional. Could he trust to it? Would Frederick Walcheren’s vows prove adamant against the awful news he had been called upon to hear--the strong desire to avenge his wife’s death which must be raging in his breast at the present moment, unless, on assuming his priestly robes, he had parted with his manhood. Henry Hindes pondered over this question, night and day, for a wonder, morphia-free. The shock of discovering _who_ was his confessor had acted on him as it might have done on a drunkard. It had sobered him, and, for a while, he conceived a horror of the drug without which he had considered it impossible he could live. Instinct came to his assistance, and made him feel he must keep his wits about him, in readiness for what might happen. After all, no one had, or could ever have, any proof against him. And who would believe the word of a priest from evidence taken in the confessional? What witness was there to what he had confessed? Besides, had he not cancelled it all at the last, by saying it had been the outcome of a bet between himself and a friend, and why should he not stick to that story?