Whereupon, having received his last instructions, Bufton departed.
When he was gone, Granger threw himself into a deep chair by the fireside, and, to his astonishment, found that he was in a slight tremor, that there was a palpitation going on within his frame.
"So!" he thought to himself, as he sat there, "this will not do. I, am a long, long way off success yet; a long, long way from the end of what I have set myself to do, and already my nerves are ajar. I must quiet them. In the old way, the old cursed way that grows on me day by day."
Whereupon, as he had done so frequently, he did again, and finding his bottle, drank a dram. "If I could do without it," he whispered to himself. "If I could do without it! Yet, why should I? It brings oblivion, forgetfulness. It shuts out the picture of my mother's grave, of Sophy's face."
It was now the time of day when few people visited his place of business--for in this region all the world dined at midday--and he sat on and on waiting for Bufton to return with the letter. Sat on meditating, thinking always.
"I did not like the look he gave me as I disclosed my ruse for getting that letter written," he reflected; "almost I feared I had scared him, alarmed him with my astuteness. I must not do that! No. No. For if he once takes fright I lose him and--the chance is gone forever. I must not do that."
He looked at the bottle eagerly--wistfully--then, strong in his determination, rose from his seat and thrust it almost violently away from him into the place where he kept it.
"Later, when all is accomplished," he muttered, "when there is no more to be done, I can drink myself to death. And--with satisfaction.
"Pity, pity," he continued now, still musing, "that it could not take place to-night or to-morrow night. Yet that must not be. Barry must be back, as he will be on Sunday night. It must be Barry whom he attacks in the Marshes, or, at least, thinks he will attack. That will make assurance double sure. Double sure. Oh! my God," he cried, "let me make no mistake now. None!" While as the unhappy man uttered this cry he sprang from the chair on which he sat, and commenced to pace up and down the room.
"If Anne aids me," he whispered, "if she is staunch, we have got him in the net. He is ours. She will be free, and I--no--no--not I!--but those two women whom I loved better than my life, avenged."