'No. My story concerns my father more than it does me.'
'Concerns your father!' repeated the doctor, with a sudden recollection of the bishop's secret. 'Are you sure that I am the proper person to consult?'
'I am certain of it. I know—I know—well, what I do know is something I have not the courage to speak to my father about. For God's sake, doctor, let me tell you my suspicions and hear your advice.'
'Your suspicions!' said Graham, starting from his chair, with a chill in his blood. 'About—about—that—that murder?'
'God forbid, doctor. No! not about the murder, but about the man who was murdered.'
'Jentham?'
'Yes, about the man who called himself Jentham. Are you sure we are quite private here, doctor?'
Graham nodded, and walking to the door turned the key. Then he came back to his seat and fixed his eyes on the perturbed face of the young man. 'Does your father know that you are back?' he asked.
'No one knows that I am here save Mrs Pansey.'
'Then it won't be a secret long,' said Graham, drily; 'that old magpie is as good as the town-crier. You left your mother well?'