He was evidently in a great strait with his conscience. Curious what times some people have with their consciences! What a blessing mine never bothered me! I wonder what it feels like? Perhaps like when you have eaten a whole bushel of unripe gooseberries and wish you hadn't. Something like that, I wager!
At any rate, he felt bad, and I was sorry for him.
So I didn't throw the monstrous thingborium away, because he thought so much about it. I kept a tight hold of it, though, and said—
"Well, then, tell me if you know anything about my father!"
Mr. Ablethorpe sat down with his head between his hands, and groaned.
"Perfectly legitimate—perfectly legitimate—from your point of view," he said. "What am I to do? Seal of the confessional! I can't do it, yet I must satisfy Joseph."
Then he hit upon something.
"You know where the Rev. Cecil de la Poer lives," says he. "He is my spiritual director."
I knew him. The Reverend Cecil was another of the ultra-High Churchers, who lived about three miles off, and was a gentleman's private chaplain. He was, if possible, ten times more set on thingboriums et cetera than our Mr. Ablethorpe.
"Well," said the Hayfork, "I will write a private confession of all I know about the matter to my spiritual director. I will intrust you with the letter to deliver it to Mr. De la Poer. And if you open it, the sin will be on your head."