"It's for your sake it's small," replied the young man, with a covert sneer, "I might have had to make my supper off it, if I'd been overhauled."
A sickening dread came over Miss Gastonguay, and she averted her head with an imperious, "Read it to me."
He ran glibly over the words, "'My dear Jane—if I may call you so, but my mind is not on small matters.—I have come to the end of my rope. Let me say what I have to say and be done. I have about four weeks to live, possibly three,—it does not matter. In view of this, let the dead past bury itself. I want to see you, but especially my girl. I cannot die without it, yet the hounds are on my track. I have been dragging myself from place to place, but the chase will be over after I see you both. This is my only desire,—to see you, then to bestow myself in some safe place.'"
Miss Gastonguay interrupted the reading, "What does he mean by a safe place?"
"I don't know,—that river, I dare say."
"Go on," she said, sternly.
"'I must come soon or I cannot come at all. Everything is misty and faded but bygone days and the necessity of keeping out of sight. I am tired like a child. If I don't come soon I shall have no strength to leave you, but I shall not disgrace you, don't be afraid. You will agree—you must. Keep at home for a few days. Be surprised at nothing, but don't have too much communication with J. M. He is watched. Yours wearily, L.'"
"Tear it up," said Miss Gastonguay.
The young criminal tore the paper into fifty pieces, and scattering half on the ground put the rest into his pocket.
"Can he come?" he asked.