“You—you are not playing a joke with me, my dear Jack? You haven’t got the—document in your pocket all the time?”
“If I said that I hadn’t you wouldn’t believe me, you know,” he replied. “There, take your hand off my coat!”
“Stop! stop!” exclaimed Stephen, with a ghostly attempt at a laugh. “Don’t go, my dear Jack; stop at the house to-night. I should feel very much obliged, indeed, if you would. I am so upset to-night that I—I want company. Let me beg of you to stop.”
And in his dread lest Jack should escape out of sight, he held on to his arm.
Jack shook him with so emphatic a movement of disgust that Stephen was in imminent danger of making a further acquaintance with the lawn.
“Go indoors,” he said sternly, “and leave me alone. I’d rather not sleep under the same roof with you. As for your lost paper, whatever it may be, you had better look for it in the morning, unless you want to get into further trouble,” and he turned on his heel and disappeared.
Stephen waited until he had got at a safe distance, and, blowing out the candle, followed down the road with stealthy footsteps, keeping a close watch on the rapidly-striding figure, and examining the road at the same time. But all to no purpose; Jack reached and entered the inn without stopping, and neither going nor returning could Stephen see anything of the missing will.
Two hours afterward he crept back and staggered into the library more dead than alive, one question rankling in his disordered brain.
Had Jack Newcombe found the will, and, if not, where was it?
After a time the paroxysm of fear and despair passed, and left him calmer. His acute brain, overwhelmed but not crushed out, began to recover itself, and he turned the situation round and round until he had come to a plan of action.