"Did I ever hear! Well, if this isn't impertinent!" exclaimed Lady
Knollys. "I did not intend to talk about him, but now I _will_." And so
it was that I heard the story of that enigmatical person--martyr, angel,
demon--Uncle Silas, with whom my fate was now so strangely linked.

It was twenty years ago. He was not a reformed rake, but a ruined one
then. My father had helped him again and again, until his marriage with
a barmaid. After that he allowed him five hundred a year, and the use of
his estate of Bartram-Haugh. Then Mr. Charke, a gentleman of the turf,
who was staying with my uncle for Doncaster Races, was found dead in his
room--he had committed suicide by cutting his throat. And Uncle Silas
was suspected of having killed him.

This wretched Mr. Charke had won heavy wagers at the races from Uncle
Silas, and at night they had played very deep at cards. Next morning his
servant could not enter his room; it was locked on the inside, the
window was fastened by a screw, and the chimney was barred with iron. It
seemed that he had hermetically sealed himself in, and then killed
himself. But he had been in boisterous spirits. Also, though his own
razor was found near his right hand, the fingers of his left hand were
cut to the bone. Then the memorandum-book in which his bets were noted
was nowhere to be found. Besides, he had written two letters to a
friend, saying how profitable he had found his visit to Bartram-Haugh,
and that he held Uncle Silas's I O U's for a frightful sum; and although
my uncle stoutly alleged he did not owe him a guinea, there had scarcely
been time in one evening for him to win back so much money. In a moment
the storm was up, and although my uncle met it bravely, he failed to
overcome it, and became a social outcast, in spite of all my father's
efforts.