“Please no, unless you desire to start a scandal among the servants, and another in the village.”
“Oh, you are worse than heartless; you are unjust. . . . But I will wait till the morning. Good-bye.” Colin turned and moved towards the door.
“Stay! You have forgotten your money.”
Without looking back Colin went out.
When Mr. Hayward went to bed, half-an-hour later, he left—deliberately—the notes lying on his writing-table.
At 6.30 a.m. Colin entered a closed carriage, and with his modest baggage was driven to the station. There had been no farewells, and on the whole he did not regret their absence, for he knew they would have been highly seasoned with reproaches and unwelcome advice. He took a ticket for Glasgow.
Having heard the carriage drive away, Mr. Hayward in his dressing gown came down to the library. Where the notes had been he found a scrap of paper—
I.O.U.
One hundred pounds.
C. H. Hayward.
He smiled sardonically, muttering, “I thought he would climb down,” and put the I.O.U. beside the anonymous note of last night, in his safe.