"You make me feel like a microbe," he
said. "However, if you would care to take a peep at me through your
microscope, I will crawl on to the stage for your inspection, though it
is not _my_ actions that furnish the materials for your psychological
studies. I am only a passive agent. It is my poor brother who is the
_Deus ex machina_, who, from his unknown grave, as I fear, pulls the
strings of this infernal puppet-show."
He paused, and for a space gazed thoughtfully into the grate as if he
had forgotten my presence. At length he looked up, and resumed:
"It is a curious story, Doctor--a very curious story. Part of it you
know--the middle part. I will tell it you from the beginning, and then
you will know as much as I do; for, as to the end, that is known to no
one. It is written, no doubt, in the book of destiny, but the page has
yet to be turned.
"The mischief began with my father's death. He was a country clergyman
of very moderate means, a widower with two children, my brother John and
me. He managed to send us both to Oxford, after which John went into the
Foreign Office and I was to have gone into the Church.
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