'Write to him at once, and meanwhile telegraph to the Adjutant-General—no matter what the expense—for immediate intelligence about him. You will also write to Shafto—you know what to say to him.'
With right goodwill Mr. Kippilaw hastened to obey the Peer's injunctions in both instances.
He wrote to Shafto curtly, relating all that had transpired, adding that he (Shafto) could not retain his present position for another day without risking a public trial, and that if he would confess the vile and cruel imposture of which he had been guilty he might escape being sent to prison, and obtaining perhaps 'permanent employment' in the Perth Penitentiary.
This letter—though not unexpected—proved a most bitter pill to Shafto! He saw that 'the game was up'—his last card played, that life had no more in it for him, and that there was nothing left for him but to fly the country and his debts together.
His face was set hard, and into his shifty grey eyes came the savage gleam one may see in those of a cat before it springs, but with this expression were mingled rage and fear.
With Mr. Kippilaw's letter were two others, from different parties. In one he was informed that legal proceedings had been taken against him, and in default of his putting in an appearance, judgment for execution and costs had been given against him in an English court, for £847 16s. 8d., in favour of a Jew, who held another bill, which, though it originally represented £400, would cost £800 before he parted with it; and Shafto actually laughed a little bitter and discordant laugh as he rent the lawyers' letters into fragments and cast them to the wind.
Before departing, however, and before his story transpired, he contrived to borrow from the butler and housekeeper every spare pound they possessed, and quietly went forth, portmanteau in hand.
Did he as he thus left the house recall the auspicious day on which he had first seen, with keen and avaricious exultation, Craigengowan in all its baronial beauty, its wealth of pasture and meadow-land, of wood, and moor, and mountain, and deemed that all—all were, or would be, his?
He turned his back on the Howe of the Mearns for ever, and from that hour all trace of him was lost!
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