"Always yours,
"RUBY."
"P.S. I left some flowers on the bureau. I'm afraid they'll die before you see them, but they are my thoughts, which will always be in this room with you."
He looked at the flowers: red roses drooping their heads. Bending down he pressed the letter to his lips. Then slowly and deliberately he tore it up, threw the pieces on to the fire and watched them burn. Drawing a chair forward he sat down and stretched out his hands to the glowing coal. They were icy cold. He was shivering.
It was obvious that the police suspected him of having altered Sir Reginald Crichton's cheque. Their suspicions must have been pretty strong. They must have found some evidence in order to obtain a warrant to search his rooms.
Perhaps there was a warrant out for his arrest. He smiled grimly. But suddenly the expression on his face changed.
If he were arrested and the news reached Devonshire it would break his father's heart, ruin his sister's life.
He jumped to his feet, picked up his hat, intending to go out at once and find Sir Reginald. The clock struck the hour—eleven. It was too late to see him now. Besides, he did not know for certain that the police suspected him!
They had some letters, the contents of which he did not know. Receipts for the bills Ruby had paid.
It was quite possible they might suspect her. He threw his hat aside and examined the bureau again.