‘Ah!’ breathed Wellfield, with a kind of prolonged sigh; and then, looking up, he could see, even through the gathering darkness, the calm, clear, commanding eyes which were fixed upon his face. The stronger nature subdued him–subdued everything about him: his anguish of remorse; his poignant grief; his wild desire to bring his misery to an end in some way or other, but to put it to an end. He felt that Somerville had read his half-formed wish, nor did the latter hesitate to avow it. ‘You had no good purpose in your mind?’ he said, composedly. For all answer, Wellfield gave a half-groan, and propped himself up against an ancient, gnarled crab-tree which overhung the stream. Then, after a pause, he said: ‘I had no purpose at all, except to end my wretchedness. I tell you I cannot live through much more of this. Why did you come in my way?’ ‘Because another lot is appointed to you than to make an end of yourself in that river,’ was the reply; ‘and I–I recognise it distinctly–was sent to tell you of that different lot.’ ‘Then give me peace–give me ease from these torments that I am enduring,’ said Wellfield, fiercely, his sombre eyes, clouded over with his anguish, flashing suddenly. ‘You it was who first put the cursed idea into my head of marrying that girl; you told me then, when I hesitated, that if I belonged to you–you could make it all smooth and right for me. Make it right now–now that I have murdered her and got her money.’ ‘Yes, I will do so,’ was the rejoinder, in a tone of such perfect assurance, such calm conviction, that his hearer felt it strike something like conviction to his heart. ‘You are in a labyrinth, but I can guide you out of it, for I have the clue. Yield yourself only to my guidance. That is all I demand. And for me to guide you, I must know _all_, unreservedly–every secret of your heart, every thought that distracts you. Then I can help you.’