I had but one answer to this. Life, on such conditions as my good friend had just stated, would be simply unendurable to me. Nothing could alter my resolution--for this plain reason, that nothing could reconcile me to living with my husband on the terms on which we were living now. It only rested with Benjamin to say whether he would give a helping hand to his master’s daughter or not. The old man’s answer was thoroughly characteristic of him. “Mention what you want of me, my dear,” was all he said. We were then passing a street in the neighborhood of Portman Square. I was on the point of speaking again, when the words were suspended on my lips. I saw my husband. He was just descending the steps of a house--as if leaving it after a visit. His eyes were on the ground: he did not look up when the-carriage passed. As the servant closed the door behind him, I noticed that the number of the house was Sixteen. At the next corner I saw the name of the street. It was Vivian Place. “Do you happen to know who lives at Number Sixteen Vivian Place?” I inquired of my companion. Benjamin started. My question was certainly a strange one, after what he had just said to me. “No,” he replied. “Why do you ask?” “I have just seen Eustace leaving that house.” “Well, my dear, and what of that?” “My mind is in a bad way, Benjamin. Everything my husband does that I don’t understand rouses my suspicion now.” Benjamin lifted his withered old hands, and let them drop on his knees again in mute lamentation over me. “I tell you again,” I went on, “my life is unendurable to me. I won’t answer for what I may do if I am left much longer to live in doubt of the one man on earth whom I love. You have had experience of the world. Suppose you were shut out from Eustace’s confidence, as I am? Suppose you were as fond of him as I am, and felt your position as bitterly as I feel it--what would you do?” The question was plain. Benjamin met it with a plain answer. “I think I should find my way, my dear, to some intimate friend of your husband’s,” he said, “and make a few discreet inquiries in that quarter first.” Some intimate friend of my husband’s? I considered with myself. There was but one friend of his whom I knew of--my uncle’s correspondent, Major Fitz-David. My heart beat fast as the name recurred to my memory. Suppose I followed Benjamin’s advice? Suppose I applied to Major Fitz-David? Even if he, too, refused to answer my questions, my position would not be more helpless than it was now. I determined to make the attempt. The only difficulty in the way, so far, was to discover the Major’s address. I had given back his letter to Doctor Starkweather, at my uncle’s own request. I remembered that the address from which the Major wrote was somewhere in London--and I remembered no more. “Thank you, old friend; you have given me an idea already,” I said to Benjamin. “Have you got a Directory in your house?”