“About that note,” he said. “Maybe the poor lass left it behind her, and it was in yer writing.”
Henderson’s face fell.
“The devil it was!” he muttered.
“And maybe she’s other letters, put by that ye wrote? I’ve taken other letters, perhaps, signed by yer name. No, master, the story about the stranger giving it to me won’t wash. It would only make me out a big liar, and not help ye. You’ll ha’ to face the letters, and stick to the story that you did not go to meet the poor lass when she met her death.”
“Of course, I did not go. After I wrote the letter, I got afraid to meet her,” said Henderson, in great agitation.
“Stick to that; ye got afraid to go, and the poor lass must ha’ shot herself because ye broke yer word; ye may make them believe that, not the other, for lots o’ folks knew what was between ye and poor Elsie.”
Henderson’s teeth almost chattered in his head.
“You think so?” he said, tremblingly.
“I’m sure; Alice the barmaid knew and others. Stick to the story that ye did not go.”