According to Old File’s statement, though Doctor Dulcifer had never actually ill-used his wife, he had never lived on kind terms with her:  the main cause of the estrangement between them, in later years, being Mrs. Dulcifer’s resolute resistance to her husband’s plans for emerging from poverty, by the simple process of coining his own money.  The poor woman still held fast by some of the principles imparted to her in happier days; and she was devotedly fond of her daughter.  At the time of her sudden death, she was secretly making arrangements to leave the doctor, and find a refuge for herself and her child in a foreign country, under the care of the one friend of her family who had not cast her off.  Questioning my informant about Alicia next, I found that he knew very little about her relations with her father in later years.  That she must long since have discovered him to be not quite so respectable a man as he looked, and that she might suspect something wrong was going on in the house at the present time, were, in Old File’s opinion, matters of certainty; but that she knew anything positively on the subject of her father’s occupations, he seemed to doubt.  The doctor was not the sort of man to give his daughter, or any other woman, the slightest chance of surprising his secrets.

These particulars I gleaned during one long month of servitude and imprisonment in the fatal red-brick house.

During all that time not the slightest intimation reached me of Alicia’s whereabouts.  Had she forgotten me?  I could not believe it.  Unless the dear brown eyes were the falsest hypocrites in the world, it was impossible that she should have forgotten me.  Was she watched?  Were all means of communicating with me, even in secret, carefully removed from her?  I looked oftener and oftener into the doctor’s study as those questions occurred to me; but he never quitted it without locking the writing-desk first—­he never left any papers scattered on the table, and he was never absent from the room at any special times and seasons that could be previously calculated upon.  I began to despair, and to feel in my lonely moments a yearning to renew that childish experiment of crying, which I have already adverted to, in the way of confession.  Moralists will be glad to hear that I really suffered acute mental misery at this time of my life.  My state of depression would have gratified the most exacting of Methodists; and my penitent face would have made my fortune if I could only have been exhibited by a reformatory association on the platform of Exeter Hall.

How much longer was this to last?  Whither should I turn my steps when I regained my freedom?  In what direction throughout all England should I begin to look for Alicia?

Sleeping and walking—­working and idling—­those were now my constant thoughts.  I did my best to prepare myself for every emergency that could happen; I tried to arm myself beforehand against every possible accident that could befall me.  While I was still hard at work sharpening my faculties and disciplining my energies in this way, an accident befell the doctor, on the possibility of which I had not dared to calculate, even in my most hopeful moments.