I was tortured with conjectures. I lingered in the passage; but the conversation was carried on in too low a tone for me even to distinguish a solitary monosyllable; and ashamed of acting the part of a spy, I stole back with noiseless steps to my place in the office. I found George at his desk: his face was very pale, and I thought I could perceive traces of strong emotion. For some time he wrote on in silence, without asking a word about the secret that I was burning to tell. I was the first to speak and lead him to the subject. "Do you know that horrible old woman, George?" "Too well: she is my grandmother, and nursed me in my infancy." "Then, what made you so anxious to avoid a recognition?" "I did not want her to know that I was living. She believes me dead: nay more," he continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, "she thinks she murdered me." His lips quivered as he murmured, in half-smothered tones: "And she--the beautiful, the lost one--what will become of her?" "Oh, Harrison," I cried, "do speak out; do not torture me with these dark hints. If you are a true friend, give me your whole confidence, nor let your silence give rise to painful conjectures and doubts. I have no concealments from you. Such mental reservation on your part is every thing but kind." "I frankly acknowledge that you have just cause to suspect me," said George, with his usual sad, winning smile. "But this is not a safe place to discuss matters of vital interest to us both--matters which involve life and death. I trust to clear up the mystery one of these days, and for that purpose I am here. But tell me: how did Moncton receive this woman--this Dinah North?" I related the scene. When I repeated the contents of the note, his calm face crimsoned with passion, his eyes flashed, and his lips quivered with indignation. "Yes, I thought it would come to that; unhappy, miserable Alice! how could you bestow the affections of a warm, true heart on a despicable wretch like Theophilus Moncton. The old fiend's ambition and this fatal passion have been your ruin." For some time he remained with his face bowed upon his hands. At length, raising his head, and turning to me with great animation, he asked if I knew any of my father's relations, besides Robert Moncton and his son? "I was not aware that I had any other relatives." "They are by no means a prolific race, Geoffrey. And has your insatiable curiosity never led you to make the inquiry?" "I dared not ask my uncle. My aunt told me that, but for them, I should be alone in the world. It was a subject never discussed before me," I continued, after a long pause, in which George seemed busy with his own thoughts. "I understood that my uncle had only one brother." "True," said George, "but he has a cousin; a man of great wealth and consequence. Did you never hear Theophilus mention Sir Alexander Moncton?" "Never." "Nor to whom his long visits in Yorkshire were made?"