"Tell it me, Mr. Fortescue," I said, eagerly.

"And a very long tale."

"So much the better; it is sure to be interesting."

"Ah, yes, I dare say you would find it interesting. My life has been
stirring and stormy enough, in all conscience--except for the ten years I
spent in heaven," said Mr. Fortescue, in a voice and with a look of
intense sadness.

"Ten years in heaven!" I exclaimed, as much astonished as I had just been
horrified. Was the man mad, after all, or did he speak in paradoxes? "Ten
years in heaven!"

Mr. Fortescue smiled again, and then it occurred to me that his ten years
of heaven might have some connection with the veiled portrait and the
shrine in his room up-stairs.

"You take me too literally," he said. "I spoke metaphorically. I did not
mean that, like Swedenborg and Mohammed, I have made excursions to
Paradise. I merely meant that I once spent ten years of such serene
happiness as it seldom falls to the lot of man to enjoy. But to return to
our subject. You would like to know more of my past; but as it would not
be satisfactory to tell you an incomplete history, and to tell you
all--Yet why not? I have done nothing that I am ashamed of; and it is well
you should know something of the man whose life you have saved once, and
may possibly save again. You are trustworthy, straightforward, and
vigilant, and albeit you are not overburdened with intelligence--"