Mr. Germaine had gone back to his parsonage through the moonlight with a more troubled mind than he had perhaps ever brought before from any house in his parish. A clergyman has to hear many strange stories, but this, which was in the course of being enacted, and at a crisis so full of excitement, occupied him as no tale of erring husband or wife, or son or daughter going to the bad--such as are also so common everywhere--had ever done. But the thing which excited him most was the recollection of the silent figure behind, sitting bowed down while the penitent made her confession, listening to everything, but making no sign. The clergyman’s interest was all with Mrs. Blencarrow; he was on her side. To think that she--such a woman--could have got herself into a position like that, seemed incredible, and he felt with an aching sympathy that there was nothing he would not do to get her free--nothing that was not contrary to truth and honour. But, granted that inconceivable first step, her position was one which could be understood; whereas all his efforts could not make him understand the position of the other--the man who sat there and made no sign. How could any man sit and hear all that and make no sign?--silent when she made the tragical suggestion that she might be contradicted--motionless when she herself did the servant’s part and opened the door to the visitor--giving neither support, nor protest, nor service--taking no share in the whole matter except the silent assertion of his presence there? Mr. Germaine could not forget it; it preoccupied him more than the image, so much more beautiful and commanding, of the woman in her anguish. What the man could be thinking, what could be his motives, how he could reconcile himself to, or how he could have been brought into, such a strange position, was the subject of all his thoughts. It kept coming uppermost all day; it became a kind of fascination upon him; wherever he turned his eyes he seemed to see the strange image of that dark figure, with hidden face and shaggy hair pushed about, between his supporting hands. Just twenty-four hours after that extraordinary interview these thoughts were interrupted by a visitor. ‘A gentleman, sir, wishing to see you.’ It was late for any such visit, but a clergyman is used to being appealed to at all seasons. The visitor came in--a tall man wrapped in a large coat, with the collar up to his ears. It was a cold night, which accounted sufficiently for any amount of covering. Mr. Germaine looked at him in surprise, with a curious sort of recognition of the heavy outline of the man; but he suddenly brightened as he recognised the stranger and welcomed him cheerfully. ‘Oh! it is you, Brown; come to the fire, and take a chair. Did you ever feel such cold?’