“Thank you.” After a time he roused himself, and began to speak very quietly, as if on an indifferent matter of fact.

“The name of my wife is Aimée. Aimée Hamley, of course. She lives at Bishopfield, a village near Winchester. Write it down, but keep it to yourself. She is a French-woman, a Roman Catholic, and was a servant. She is a thoroughly good woman. I must not say how dear she is to me. I dare not. I meant once to have told Cynthia; but she didn’t seem quite to consider me as a brother. Perhaps she was shy of a new relation; but you’ll give my love to her, all the same. It is a relief to think that some one else has my secret; and you are like one of us, Molly. I can trust you almost as I can trust Roger. I feel better already, now I feel that some one else knows the whereabouts of my wife and child.”

“Child!” said Molly, surprised. But before he could reply, Maria had announced, “Miss Phœbe Browning.”

“Fold up that paper,” said he quickly, putting something into her hands. “It is only for yourself.”