“Elsie’ll never allow what?” I asked; though I felt it was rather more grotesque than undignified and inconsistent thus to parley and make terms with my father’s murderer.  Though, to be sure, it was Jack, and I couldn’t bear to refuse him.

He kept his hand on my arm with an air of authority.

“Una, my child,” he said, thrusting me back—­and even at that moment of supreme horror, a thrill ran all through my body at his touch and his words—­“you mustn’t go out of this house as you are this minute.  I refuse to allow it.  I’m your doctor, and I forbid it.  You’re under my charge, and I won’t let you stir.  If I did, I’d be responsible.”

He pushed me gently into a chair.

“I gave you but one false name,” he said slowly—­“the name of Cheriton.  To be sure I, was never christened John, but I’m Jack to my intimates.  It was my nickname from a baby.  Jack’s what I’ve always been called at home—­Jack’s what, in the dear old days at Torquay, you always called me.  But I saw if I let you know who I was at once, there’d be no chance of recalling the past, and so saving you from yourself.  To save you, I consented to that one mild deception.  It succeeded in bringing you here, and in keeping you here till Elsie and I were once more what we’d always been to you.  I meant to tell you all in the end, when the right time came.  Now, you’ve forced my hand, and I don’t know how I can any longer refrain from telling you.”

“Telling me what?” I said icily.  “What do you mean by your words?  Why all these dark hints?  If you’ve anything to say, why not say it like a man?”

For I loved him so much that in my heart of hearts, I half hoped there might still be some excuse, some explanation.

He looked at me solemnly.  Then he leant back in his chair and drew his hand across his brow.  I could see now why I hadn’t recognised that delicate hand before:  white as it was by nature, hard work on the farm had long bronzed and distorted it.  But I saw also, for the first time, that the palm was scarred with cuts and rents—­exactly like Minnie Moore’s, exactly like Aunt Emma’s.

“Una,” he began slowly, in a very puzzled tone, “if I could, I’d give myself up and be tried, and be found guilty and executed for your sake, sooner than cause you any further distress, or expose you to the shock of any more disclosures.  But I can’t do that, on Elsie’s account.  Even if I decided to put Elsie to that shame and disgrace—­which would hardly be just, which would hardly be manly of me—­Elsie knows all, and Elsie’d never consent to it.  She’d never let her brother be hanged for a crime of which (as she knows) he’s entirely innocent.  And she’d tell out all in full court—­every fact, every detail—­which would be worse for you ten thousand times in the end than learning it here quietly.”

“Tell me all,” I said, growing stony, yet trembling from head to foot.  “Oh, Jack,”—­I seized his hand,—­“I don’t know what you mean!  But I somehow trust you.  I want to know all.  I can bear anything—­anything—­better than this suspense.  You must tell me!  You must explain to me!”