“The highwayman said that?”
“Yes,” replied Tom, after a long pause. “By that time I was almost on ’em. He fired; by the flash I saw his face.... Oh, my God!”
“You would know him again, then?”
“I shall never see him again,” replied Tom, with a certain doggedness of tone. His bearing during this conversation had been so singular, and in some respects so unaccountable, that Philip was disposed to think his mind was affected. “You had better rest,” he said kindly.
“I shall rest—till Judgment Day,” replied the wounded youth; “and I shan’t say much more before then. Oh, I have my wits about me ... more now than when that shot was fired! Just after that I heard a call somewhere down the road; I shouted back. Then he rode at me and hit me with the butt of his pistol. Well, he’s a villain; but it’s better for me to die than to hang him. I’ve had enough.”
At this point Marion came to the door with a letter in her hand, and as Philip approached her, she said to him in a low voice: “I found this in Mr. Grant’s pocket. It is addressed to Perdita Desmoines. What shall be done about it?”
Philip took the letter from her and looked at it. It was inclosed in a sealed packet of stout paper, and the address was in Mr. Grant’s handwriting. Its appearance indicated that it had been kept for some time; the corners were dog-eared and the edges somewhat worn. Across the corner of the packet was the following indorsement:
“In case of my decease to be handed at once to the person to whom it is addressed, and on no account to be opened by any other person.
J. G.”
“I can’t leave here at present,” said Lancaster, “and ’twould not be safe to trust it to a messenger. Let it wait till this evening or to-morrow.”