“No; you have been to see us. I will tell him everything when we are alone. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Guest hurried back to the inn, but all was dark there; and, on going on to Sarum Street, he knocked at the door in vain.
“I can do no more,” he said; and he went slowly back to his own rooms.
Chapter Forty One.
At Fault.
It was from no dread of the consequences likely to ensue that Malcolm Stratton paused with the burning paper in his hand. He knew that he had but to drop it into the clear fluid beneath, for this to burst out into a dancing crater of blue and orange flames. He knew, too, that the old woodwork with which the antique place was lined would rapidly catch fire, and that in a short time the chambers would be one roaring, fiery furnace, and the place be doomed before the means of extinction could arrive. He had no fear for self, for he felt that there would be time enough to escape if he wished to save his life. But he did not drop the blazing paper; letting it burn right to his fingers, and then crushing it in his hand.
“There is no reason,” he muttered, as he turned slowly back to his room. “It would be madness now; there is nothing to conceal.”