"Perhaps to leave it permanently, and not by the English Channel, either, might be worse," was the cold, savage reply. "Mr. Byng made his terms."
Fellowes shivered. "What am I to do out of England—but, yes, I'll go, I'll go," he added, as he saw the look in Stafford's face and thought of the revolver so near to Stafford's hand.
"Yes, of course you will go," was the stern retort. "You will go, just as I say."
"What shall I do abroad?" wailed the weak voice.
"What you have always done here, I suppose—live on others," was the crushing reply. "The venue will be changed, but you won't change, not you. If I were you, I'd try and not meet Jigger before you go. He doesn't know quite what it is, but he knows enough to make him reckless."
Fellowes moved towards the door in a stumbling kind of way. "I have some things up-stairs," he said.
"They will be sent after you to your chambers. Give me the keys to the desk in the secretary's room."
"I'll go myself, and—"
"You will leave this house at once, and everything will be sent after you—everything. Have no fear. I will send them myself, and your letters and private papers will not be read.... You feel you can rely on me for that—eh?"
"Yes ... I'll go now ... abroad ... where?"