"He approved of my resolution, and offered to render me some small regular assistance to assist me to live. I accepted it after some hesitation; he had made money out of me while acting as my steward, and I thought he could afford it. Should I find myself master of more than would be requisite for the barest necessaries, I would devote it to the children of misery in memory of my wife, who had a charitable heart, and was always giving to the poor. But what sweet virtue could be named that did not grace her soul? "You know now, Rathbeal, how it was that I did not bear my own name when you first became acquainted with me. It was by chance that you made this discovery, and it was partly because I felt that there was a cowardice in the subterfuge, and that I was practicing it to avoid the moral punishment I had earned, that when we were together abroad I resumed my own. There was no need to make my friend acquainted with this, and it is probable that he is in ignorance of it to this day. It does not in any way concern him. I have cut myself away from him as I have done from every person who knew me during my wife's lifetime. The motive that induced me to request you to inform him that he would be troubled with me no more was this: I had to some extent bound myself to him not to return to England, and when I resolved to do so in your company I felt that I was partially violating that understanding. Consequently I determined to sever all personal relations between him and myself. He has not sought me, nor shall I ever seek him. Our ways of life lie widely apart, and it is hardly likely we shall ever meet again. He believes me probably to be dead; let him rest in this belief. "I have nothing to add, Rathbeal, to this lengthy confession. You know the worst of me. If you condemn me be silent, it will be charitable. If I am still allowed to retain your friendship, it will ease my heart. "Robert Grantham." CHAPTER IX. Mr. Fox-Cordery is not easy in his mind. In a state of deep dissatisfaction with the world in general, Mr. Fox-Cordery paced the lawn fronting the country house he had taken on the banks of the Thames. He was smoking one of his fragrant cigars, but it had no soothing effect upon him; a common weed of British make would have afforded him as much gratification. He was perplexed and annoyed, and was growing savage; and yet he had cause, if not for gratitude--of which it may be doubted whether he was capable--at least for self-congratulation.