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I, too, had my reasons for referring to the doctor's illness: and I readily accepted the responsibility of speaking first. "Judging by the change I see in him," I began, "Mr. Candy's illness must have been far more serious that I had supposed?" "It is almost a miracle," said Ezra Jennings, "that he lived through it." "Is his memory never any better than I have found it to-day?
Candy's illness, you will the more readily understand the sore need I had of lightening the burden on my mind by giving it, at intervals, some sort of relief. I have had the presumption to occupy my leisure, for some years past, in writing a book, addressed to the members of my profession a book on the intricate and delicate subject of the brain and the nervous system.
Ezra Jennings looked at me, with a sudden flash of interest in his dreamy brown eyes. "Mr. Candy's memory is beyond the reach of assistance," he said. "I have tried to help it often enough since his recovery, to be able to speak positively on that point." This disappointed me; and I owned it. "I confess you led me to hope for a less discouraging answer than that," I said. Ezra Jennings smiled.
I called him back and then I said to myself, "Now there is no help for it. I must tell him the truth!" He retraced his steps directly. I advanced along the road to meet him. "Mr. Jennings," I said. "I have not treated you quite fairly. My interest in tracing Mr. Candy's lost recollection is not the interest of recovering the Moonstone.
I turned to the second sheet of paper, which I now knew to be the key to the first. Once more, Mr. Candy's wanderings appeared, copied in black ink; the intervals between the phrases being filled up by Ezra Jennings in red ink.
I passed over the last unanswerable utterance of the Betteredge philosophy; and returned to the subject of the man with the piebald hair. "What is his name?" I asked. "As ugly a name as need be," Betteredge answered gruffly. "Ezra Jennings." Having told me the name of Mr. Candy's assistant, Betteredge appeared to think that we had wasted enough of our time on an insignificant subject.
It was very short, and was from Mr Candy's cashier. It was written from Howlett's, Virginia, a place unknown to him, and stated that the writer expected in a very short time to give him some accurate information in regard to Mr Keswick, and expressed the hope that he would allow the affair to remain entirely in her hands until she should write again.
"It may not, perhaps, be a final answer, Mr. Blake. It may be possible to trace Mr. Candy's lost recollection, without the necessity of appealing to Mr. Candy himself." "Indeed? Is it an indiscretion, on my part, to ask how?" "By no means. My only difficulty in answering your question, is the difficulty of explaining myself. May I trust to your patience, if I refer once more to Mr.
"Well," said Mr Croft, "I would like very much to know how a young lady like you came to be Mr Candy's cashier." "I supposed you would want to know that," she said.
The latent resources in the man, for good or for evil it was hard, at that moment, to say which leapt up in him and showed themselves to me, with the suddenness of a flash of light. "Before you place any confidence in me," he went on, "you ought to know, and you MUST know, under what circumstances I have been received into Mr. Candy's house. It won't take long. My story will die with me.
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