"Unhappily, he has lost them, and it is the distressing circumstances of this sad loss that has made him what he is--an outcast on the face of the earth. As we have gone so far, sir, I may tell you that Mr. Grantham has no secrets from me. He has revealed to me all the sorrowful circumstances of his life, and he has drained the bitter cup of agony and remorse. I trust to you, sir, to keep this confidence sacred. You have wrung it out of me, and it must go no farther. If Mr. Grantham consents to see you, and if then he confides to you what he has confided to me, you will receive from him a full verification of my statements. Will you now, sir, give me the particulars of the legacy that has been left to him?" It was impossible for John Dixon to doubt that Rathbeal was speaking without guile or deceit. His manly, sympathetic voice, the frankness of his manner, and his honest look carried conviction with them. "We will speak of the legacy presently," he said. "There is a mystery here which must first be cleared up. From whom did you receive the information that Mr. Robert Grantham's wife and child were dead?" "From his own lips." "How did he obtain the information?" "It came through Mr. Fox-Cordery." "Do you tell me this seriously," asked John Dixon, pale with excitement, "or are you inventing a fantastic and horrible tale for some purpose of your own?" "I have no purpose of my own to serve," replied Rathbeal. "I am here to serve a noble and suffering man, who erred grievously in years gone by, and who is now passing his life in the work of expiation. Your words, your manner, point to a mystery indeed--a mystery it is out of my power to pierce. I scarcely know what to say, what to think. You could not demand from me a sacrifice I would be unwilling to make if I could assist in bringing comfort to my friend's heart. Trust me, sir; I am worthy of trust. Do not speak to me in metaphor; but explain to me the meaning of words I cannot at present understand." During the last few moments there had dawned upon John Dixon a light in which Mr. Fox-Cordery's villainous duplicity was to some extent made clear, and he resolved to avail himself of Rathbeal's assistance to bring him to justice. A husband who believed that those he loved were in their grave, a wife who believed herself widowed, a child who believed she was an orphan--the figures of these three wronged beings rose before him, and appealed to him to take up their cause and bring the truth to light. "If I were to tell you," he said slowly, "that I have this day written to Robert Grantham's wife, informing her of the legacy left to her husband, and asking for her instructions thereon, what would you say?" Hitherto Rathbeal had preserved his calmness, but it was his turn now to exhibit agitation. "You have written to Robert Grantham's wife!" he exclaimed. "To Robert Grantham's wife, who is in her grave!"