“Honesty’s a poor game after all,” he muttered, with a self-satisfied, half-triumphant air. “This sort of thing is the paying game,” he added, with a chuckle.
He forgot that the game had a heavy penalty attached to it, one indeed that he might be called upon to pay.
He sneaked back into the copse, and stealthily made his way to Harleydale Woods, remarking to himself—
“Now to make short work of old Wilton. The daughter is disposed of, the old man must foller, and I must touch some more of Grahame’s money. Business is business, and a ’ighly renoomerative business is pleasure—tip-top pleasure.”
At the moment that he, like a prowling wolf, was stealing beneath brake and covert, on an errand of murder, Mr. Wilton was preparing to take a walk alone to the very place where Chewkle was hiding, as though he knew the ruffian was secreting himself there, and it was his duty to place himself in his power.
CHAPTER VI.—MR. CHEWKLE EXECUTES HIS MISSION.
Rosalind lacks, then, the love
That teaches thee that thou and I am one: