“I was warned about your uncle before I came down into this part of the world,” Hamel continued quietly. “I was told that he is a dangerous conspirator, a man who sticks at nothing to gain his ends, a person altogether out of place in these days. It sounds melodramatic, but I had it straight from a friend. Since I have been here, I have had a telegram--you brought it to me yourself--asking for information about this man Dunster. It was I who wired to London that he was here. It was through me that Scotland Yard communicated with the police station at Wells, through me that a man is to be sent down from London. I didn’t come here as a spy--don’t think that; I was coming here, anyhow. On the other hand, I believe that your uncle is playing a dangerous game. I am going to have Mr. John P. Dunster put in charge of a Norwich physician to-morrow.” “Thank God!” the boy murmured. “Look here,” Hamel continued, “what are you doing in this business, anyway? You are old enough to know your own mind and to go your own way.” “You say that because you don’t know,” Gerald declared bitterly. “In a sense I don’t,” Hamel admitted, “and yet your sister hinted to me only this afternoon that you and she--” “Oh, I know what she told you!” the boy interrupted. “We’ve worn the chains for the last eight years. They are breaking her. They’ve broken my mother. Sometimes I think they are breaking me. But, you know, there comes a time--there comes a time when one can’t go on. I’ve seen some strange things here, some that I’ve half understood, some that I haven’t understood at all. I’ve closed my eyes. I’ve kept my promise. I’ve done his bidding, where ever it has led me. But you know there is a time--there is a limit to all things. I can’t go on. I spied on this man Dunster. I brought him here. It is I who am responsible for anything that may happen to him. It’s the last time!” Gerald’s face was white with pain. Hamel laid his hand upon his shoulder. “My boy,” he said, “there are worse things in the world than breaking a promise. When you gave it, the conditions which were existing at the time made it, perhaps, a right and reasonable undertaking, but sometimes the whole of the conditions under which a promise was given, change. Then one must have courage enough to be false even to one’s word.” “Have you talked to my sister like that?” Gerald asked eagerly. “I have and I will again,” Hamel declared. “To-morrow morning I leave this house, but before I go I mean to have the affair of this man Dunster cleared up. Your uncle will be very angry with me, without a doubt. I don’t care. But I do want you to trust me, if you will, and your sister. I should like to be your friend.” “God knows we need one!” the boy said simply. “Good night!”