Jack’s manner as he said this was very determined, and Henderson begun to see the prudence of his advice.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said, after thinking a moment or two. “The letter I sent yesterday was not signed in full—only my initials—but I have sent letters signed in full, and she may have kept them. It’s a confounded business altogether, and I wish I had never seen her.”
“It’s too late to wish that,” replied Jack, significantly; and then he resumed grooming the horse, while with a moody brow and an uneasy heart Henderson returned to the house, feeling that he would be almost sure to be called to account for the letter he had written the day before to poor Elsie Wray.
And he was. The afternoon had not passed when a police-constable arrived at Stourton Grange and asked to see Mr. Henderson. With a sinking heart he went to this interview, and the policeman informed him that he was the bearer of a summons for him to be present at the inquiry to be held on the death of Elsie Wray during the following morning.
“And I’ve one for your groom, Jack Reid, Mr. Henderson,” continued the policeman, with his eyes fixed searchingly on Henderson’s changing face; “he delivered a letter it seems to Miss Wray on the day of her death.”
“Yes,” faltered Henderson; “but I did not go near.”
“You must reserve your evidence until you are before the coroner, and you had better give it carefully,” and with these warning words the policeman took his departure, leaving Henderson a prey to the most morbid dread.
And scarcely had the constable gone when Mrs. Henderson crept into the room with an almost colorless face.
“Tom,” she said, in trembling accents, “what has that man been here for?”
“I’ve to attend the inquest on that girl found in Fern Dene to-morrow morning,” answered Henderson, huskily, turning away his head.