"Delicacy!" repeated Vernon, his lip curling haughtily.
"Yes—delicacy," added Greenwood. "I knew not whether you passed at your lodging by your proper name; and therefore I would not call in person to inquire for you—fearful of betraying you."
"But I do pass there in my proper name," said Vernon; "for the old widow who keeps the house nursed me in my infancy, and I can rely upon her."
"Thank you for this admission, Mr. Vernon," rejoined Greenwood, complacently: "wherever reliance is to be placed, it is clear that there is something which might be betrayed. You have confirmed the strength of my previous convictions."
"Do not think that I made that admission unguardedly," said Vernon, nettled by Greenwood's manner. "No: I see that I am in your power—I admit it; and therefore I no longer attempted to mislead you."
"And you acted wisely," returned Greenwood. "It were far better for you to have me as a friend, than as an enemy. But, as I was ere now observing, it was to avoid the chance of betraying you that I sent my faithful valet, Filippo, to loiter about Stamford Street last evening, and slip my note into your hands. I described your person to him—and he executed my commission well."
"Then you have no inimical motive in seeking me out—in telling me all that you suspect?" said Vernon, looking suspiciously at Greenwood from beneath his dark brows.
"Not the slightest! How can I have such a motive?" exclaimed Greenwood. "A secret falls in my way—and I endeavour to profit by it. That is all."
"I scarcely comprehend you," observed the guilty man, his countenance again becoming overcast.
"In one word, Mr. Vernon," continued Greenwood, emphatically, "you come to England privately—upon some secret and mysterious errand. Still you pass by your own name at your lodging. That circumstance to superficial observers might seem to involve a strange want of precaution. To me it appears a portion of your plan, and the result of a judicious calculation. You return privately to England, I say—but you retain your own name at a place where you know it will not be betrayed unless circumstances should peremptorily demand its revelation; and then, should certain suspicions attach themselves to you, you would say boldly and feasibly also—'It is true that I came to England to live quietly; but I attempted no disguise—I assumed no fictitious name.' Ah! I can penetrate further into the human heart than most people: my experience of the world is of no common order."