"But why," said Carton, with much affection, "do you torment yourself about it at all?"
"It is you I torment myself about," said Mr. Dowsett, "not the horrible deed. I love you with a father's love, and I cannot leave you in the state you are."
George Carton put his arm around his guardian caressingly. "I am not worth it," he murmured; "I am not worth it; but I cannot act otherwise than I do. Sir"--to me--"I have lingered here in the hope that you might have some news to tell me."
"I have nothing I can communicate to you," I said; "but rest assured that my interest in the discovery of the murderer is scarcely less than yours. I have taken up the search, and I will not rest while there is the shadow of a hope left."
"I knew it, I knew it," said George Carton.
"Knowing it, then," I said, "and receiving the assurance from my lips, will you do me a service, and be guided by my advice?"
"I will, indeed I will," replied Carton.
"It is heartbreaking," said Mr. Dowsett mournfully, turning his head, "to find a stranger's counsel preferred to mine."
"No, no," cried George Carton, "I declare to you, no! But you would have me do nothing, and I cannot obey you. I cannot--I cannot sit idly down, and make no effort in the cause of justice. My dear Lizzie is dead, and I do not care to live. But I will live for one thing--revenge!"
"Be calm," I said, taking the young man's fevered hand, "and listen to me. I wish you to take this letter and desk to my wife, and deliver them to her with your own hands. Will you do so?"