‘Just what I say! I am thankful for the child’s sake, of course, but the news comes too late for me. My secret is known, Hannah! I have betrayed myself. The bloodhounds of justice are on my track.’
‘Good God!’ she said under her breath, ‘how did it happen? To whom did you speak? What made you do it?’
‘My evil genius, I suppose,’ replied Hindes, grovelling on the sofa. ‘I could not bear the misery and the suspense any longer. It was burning into my soul like a red-hot iron, and I thought, if I confessed it, I might find consolation. So I went into a Roman Catholic confessional one day last week, and told my story to the priest. And who do you suppose he turned out to be?’
‘How can I tell? I know no priests.’
‘Frederick Walcheren!’
‘Frederick Walcheren!’ cried his wife; ‘but how came he to be in a confessional?’
‘He is a priest! He entered the Church, it seems, after—after—you know what! And I happened to enter his confessional! Was it not the irony of Fate? The finger of Heaven, or the devil tracking me to my destruction?’
‘But, Henry, the secrets of the confessional are sacred! I know so much! It was most unfortunate that you should have committed such an error as to confess your sin to him. But he cannot make any use of his knowledge. So far, you are safe!’
‘But that is not the worst of it, Hannah! He recognised my voice and, as I was leaving the accursed place, he showed his face at the open door. It made me dread the worst. I thought he might find means to let others learn what he had, or perhaps reveal it altogether. You never know what these Roman Catholics may do. They have no honour!’
‘Don’t blame others, Henry,’ interposed Hannah, gently, ‘whilst you are blameworthy yourself. Remember how deeply you have wronged this man. Yet, Mr Walcheren was always a gentleman and a man of honour, and I do not believe he would reveal a secret, however terrible, that had come to his knowledge through such a channel.’