"When you come to turn things over in your mind you may perhaps think I was to blame in keeping your dear father's secret. His condition, however, was not so serious but that under ordinary circumstances ... I say ordinary circumstances ... he might have lived five years, ten years, even fifteen. The truth is, though——"
"Well?"
"I want to prove the sincerity of my friendship, Miss Graves. I am sure you prefer that I should speak plainly."
"The truth is—what!" asked Helena, who was now listening with strained attention.
"That ... that your dear father's death ... I am now fully convinced of it ... was due—partly due at all events ... to circumstances that ... that were not ordinary."
Helena's pale face turned white, but she made no answer, and after a moment the surgeon said—
"It would have been cruel to tell you this last night immediately after the shock of your bereavement but ... but now that you are going away ... Besides, I spoke to Lord Nuneham. I mentioned my surmises. But you know what he is ... a great man, undoubtedly a great man, but incapable of taking counsel. Always has been, always will be, we all of us find it so."
Helena, seized with an indefinable fear, was speechless, but the surgeon's blundering tongue went on—
"'Better not speak of it,' said Lord Nuneham. 'Drop it! Don't let us weaken our case against the man and rouse popular fury by an accusation we cannot possibly bring home. Wait! We'll get hold of him to better purpose by-and-by.'"
Helena's heart was beating violently, but she only said, with laboured breathing—