When Ruth and Gertie had gone upstairs, the squire picked up his letters and carried them into his study.
He looked at the superscriptions carefully, and tossed some of them aside. They were either circulars or bills, and not of pressing importance. But one envelope he looked at long and anxiously before he opened it.
He knew the handwriting.
It was that of Seth Preene.
Preene was the only one of the gang he had once been connected with who still enjoyed his confidence. Preene was necessary to him, and could be trusted. He paid him liberally for his services. But why should Preene write to him? He had strict orders not to do so unless it was of the first necessity. He received his allowance regularly through Mr. Heritage’s London solicitors, and it was understood that there was to be no direct communication unless something happened which rendered it necessary.
What had happened?
The squire—for so we are bound to call him, as he is Edward Marston no longer—turned the envelope about nervously. He dreaded to open it. Was it possible that at last the blow was about to fall? What he dreaded was the necessity for action. He would do anything rather than that the structure he had raised with so much labour should be pulled about his ears, but he feared the necessity for any active steps arising.
He was tired of crime—he had washed his hands of it for ever; but rather than his sins should come to light and shame fall upon his dear ones, he knew there was no desperate deed he would not commit.
He dreaded to find himself at bay. He hoped that the past was so securely buried that he would need to fling no fresh earth over it, and here was a letter from Seth Preene. What could it be about save the past?
Nerving himself with an effort, he opened the envelope and read the letter at a glance.