"If I can help you, I shall do so gladly," replied the clergyman. "What is the ground of your trouble?"
"You remember Mr. Ridley?"
Mrs. Birtwell saw the clergyman start and the spasm of pain sweep over his face once more.
"Yes," he replied, in a husky whisper. But he rallied himself with an effort and asked, "What of him?" in a clear and steady voice.
"Mr. Ridley had been intemperate before coming to the city, but after settling here he kept himself free from his old bad habits, and was fast regaining the high position he had lost. I met his wife a number of times. She was a very superior woman; and the more I saw of her, the more I was drawn to her. We sent them cards for our party last winter. Mrs. Ridley was sick and could not come. Mr. Ridley came, and—and—" Mrs. Birtwell lost her voice for a moment, then added: "You know what I would say. We put the cup to his lips, we tempted him with wine, and he fell."
Mrs. Birtwell covered her face with her hands. A few strong sobs shook her frame.
"He fell," she added as soon as she could recover herself, "and still lies, prostrate and helpless, in the grasp of a cruel enemy into whose power we betrayed him."
"But you did it ignorantly," said Mr. Elliott.
"There was no intention on your part to betray him. You did not know that your friend was his deadly foe."
"My friend?" queried Mrs. Birtwell. She did not take his meaning.