Yes, yes! I know that compassion for him was utterly inconsistent with the motive which had taken me to his house--utterly inconsistent with the doubt, still present to my mind, whether Mr. Playmore had really wronged him in believing that his was the guilt which had compassed the first Mrs. Eustace’s death. I felt this: I knew him to be cruel; I believed him to be false. And yet I pitied him! Is there a common fund of wickedness in us all? Is the suppression or the development of that wickedness a mere question of training and temptation? And is there something in our deeper sympathies which mutely acknowledges this when we feel for the wicked; when we crowd to a criminal trial; when we shake hands at parting (if we happen to be present officially) with the vilest monster that ever swung on a gallows? It is not for me to decide. I can only say that I pitied Miserrimus Dexter--and that he found it out. “Thank you,” he said, suddenly. “You see I am ill, and you feel for me. Dear and good Valeria!” “This lady’s name, sir, is Mrs. Eustace Macallan,” interposed Benjamin, speaking sternly behind him. “The next time you address her, remember, if you please, that you have no business with her Christian name.” Benjamin’s rebuke passed, like Benjamin’s retort, unheeded and unheard. To all appearance, Miserrimus Dexter had completely forgotten that there was such a person in the room. “You have delighted me with the sight of you,” he went on. “Add to the pleasure by letting me hear your voice. Talk to me of yourself. Tell me what you have been doing since you left England.” It was necessary to my object to set the conversation afloat; and this was as good a way of doing it as any other. I told him plainly how I had been employed during my absence. “So you are still fond of Eustace?” he said, bitterly. “I love him more dearly than ever.” He lifted his hands, and hid his face. After waiting a while, he went on, speaking in an odd, muffled manner, still under cover of his hands. “And you leave Eustace in Spain,” he said; “and you return to England by yourself! What made you do that?” “What made me first come here and ask you to help me, Mr. Dexter?” He dropped his hands, and looked at me. I saw in his eyes, not amazement only, but alarm. “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “that you won’t let that miserable matter rest even yet? Are you still determined to penetrate the mystery at Gleninch?” “I am still determined, Mr. Dexter; and I still hope that you may be able to help me.” The old distrust that I remembered so well darkened again over his face the moment I said those words.