"You compliment me," said Rathbeal, with a gentle smile. "Did those words exist only in my imagination? Yet, as you unfolded your wishes to me, halting and hesitating with a coward's reserve, I thought I heard them spoken. 'Do I know the unfortunate man?' I inquired, 'of whom you are so considerate, toward whom you are so mercifully inclined.' You replied that it was hardly likely, and you mentioned him by name. No, I had never heard of the gentleman. 'I must see him first,' I said, 'before giving you an answer.' You instructed me how to find him, and I sought him out, and made the acquaintance of a being racked with a mortal sorrow. You came to me the following day for an answer; I informed you that you had come too soon, and that I had not decided. 'Be speedy,' you urged. 'I am anxious to get the man out of my sight.'" "Still another lie," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Not a word you have quoted was ever spoken by me." "My imagination again," said Rathbeal, with the same gentle smile; "and yet they are in my mind. Perhaps I translated your thoughts as you went on. After a fortnight had passed I consented to your wishes, and your friend, or your foe, left England for the Continent in my company. It was expressly stipulated by you that no mention should be made by me of your goodness, and that if he asked for the name of the friend who was befriending him I was to answer guardedly that you wished to preserve it secret. Only once did he refer to you, and then not by name; but I understood him to say that he knew to whom he was indebted, and that there was only one man in the world who had not deserted him in his downfall." "May I inquire," asked Mr. Fox-Cordery, "whether your companion let you into the secrets of his life--for we all have secrets, you know." "Yes, every man, high and low. He did not; he preserved absolute silence respecting his history. We remained on the Continent a considerable time, supporting ourselves partly by your benefactions, partly by copying manuscripts, an art I taught him. I learned to love the gentleman to whom you had introduced me for some evil purpose of your own----" "For an evil purpose! You are raving!" "For some evil purpose of your own, which I could no more fathom than I could the nature of the sorrow that was consuming him. 'Try opium,' I said to him, 'it will help you to forget.' He refused. 'I will allow myself no indulgence.' And this, indeed, was true to the letter. He lived upon water and a bare crust. So did the monks of old, but their lives were less holy than his, for it was only of themselves and their own souls they thought, while he, with no concern for his own welfare, temporal or spiritual, thought only of others, and applied every leisure hour and every spare coin to their relief and consolation. He was a singular mixture of qualities----" "Spare me your moralizings," interrupted Mr. Fox-Cordery. "I knew what he was, long before you set eyes on him. Keep to the main road."