Two things were plain. He must get hold of the letter; and he must visit the scene of the crime with a spade! Then—
Jonah sat up half the night thinking of it, till at last the deep breathing of his colleague in the next room reminded him that now at any rate was the time to get the letter. He had seen Jeffreys crush it into his side pocket after leaving the bookseller’s and he had heard him before getting into bed just now hang his coat on the peg behind the door. And it was hot, and the door was open.
What a day Jonah was having!
Fortune favours the brave. It was a work of two minutes only. The pocket was there at his hand before he had so much as put a foot in the room. And there was the letter—two letters—and not a board creaked or a footstep sounded before he was safe back in his own room with the documentary evidence before him.
There was only one letter after all. The other paper was a rubbishing rigmarole about General Monk and the Parliament 1660. This Jonah tossed contemptuously into the grate. But the other letter, how his flesh crept as he read it! It had no date, and was signed only in initials.
“Dear J. There is no news. I can understand your trouble and remorse, and this uncertainty makes it all the more terrible to you. I know it is vain to say to you, ‘Forget,’ but do not write about poor Forrester’s blood being on your head! Your duty is to live and redeem the past. Let the dead bury their dead, dear fellow, and turn your eyes forward, like a brave man. Yours ever, J.F.”
Do you wonder if Jonah’s blood curdled in his veins—“remorse,” “uncertainty,” “poor Forrester,” “his blood on your head,” eh? “bury your dead”!
Whew! What a day Jonah had had, to be sure!