“You must not encourage my brother to talk much, if you please; and you must not mind what he says; he has had brain-fever, and sometimes talks strangely. But on the other hand, if he fancy you don’t believe him, it will drive him wild--so you must take care--please.” Her voice was like that of a soul trying to speak with unproved lips. “Miss Lingard,” said Wingfold, slowly and quietly--and if his voice trembled, he only was aware of it, “I cannot see your face, therefore you must pardon me if I ask you--are you quite honest with me?” Helen’s first feeling was anger. She held her peace for a time. Then she said, “So, Mr. Wingfold!--that is the way you help the helpless!” “How can any man help without knowing what has to be helped?” returned the curate. “The very being of his help depends upon his knowing the truth. It is very plain you do not trust me, and equally impossible I should be of any service as long as the case is such.” Again Helen held her peace. Resentment and dislike towards himself combined with terror of his anticipated counsel to render her speechless. Her silence lasted so long that Wingfold came to the resolution of making a venture that had occurred to him more than once that morning. Had he not been convinced that a soul was in dire misery, he would not have had recourse to the seeming cruelty. “Would this help to satisfy you that, whatever my advice may be worth, at least my discretion may be trusted?” he said. They were at the moment passing through a little thicket in the park, where nobody could see them, and as he spoke, he took the knife-sheath from his pocket, and held it out to her. She started like a young horse at something dead: she had never seen it, but the shape had an association. She paled, retreated a step, with a drawing back of her head and neck and a spreading of her nostrils, stared for a moment, first at the sheath, then at the curate, gave a little moan, bit her under lip hard, held out her hand, but as if she were afraid to touch the thing, and said: “What is it? Where did you find it?” She would have taken it, but Wingfold held it fast. “Give it me,” she said imperatively. “It is mine. I lost it.” “There is something dark on the lining of it,” said the curate, and looked straight into her eyes. She let go her hold. But almost the same moment she snatched the sheath out of his hand and held it to her bosom, while her look of terror changed into one of defiance. Wingfold made no attempt to recover it. She put it in her pocket, and drew herself up. “What do you mean?” she said, in a voice that was hard yet trembled. She felt like one that sees the vultures gathering above him, and lifts a moveable finger in defence. Then with sudden haughtiness both of gesture and word: “You have been acting the spy, sir!” “No,” returned the curate quietly. “The sheath was committed to my care by one whom certain facts that had come to his knowledge--certain words he had overheard--”