Pretence was gone; and he was more lonely even than before. The one being who had seemed to turn to him naturally, avoided him now with horror, as one whose hands were stained with blood. Whatever hope might have been in his mind of escaping was gone; he no longer masqueraded in another man’s garments, and in another man’s place; he was battling for his life.
“Every moment that I stay here makes the danger greater; that thing may be found, and they may be upon me, like bloodhounds, at any moment. I must clear myself; I must, if necessary, undo all that I have done, and declare who I really am. But, if I stop here, I shall be caught like a rat in a trap. I want time to think—time to plan out what I must do——What’s that?”
Some one had knocked softly at the door. After a moment’s pause, Philip Chater, in a nervous voice, called out—“Come in!”
A servant entered, bearing a letter. “I did not know you were in, sir,” he said. “This came while you were out.”
Philip Chater—doubly suspicious now—looked at the man curiously as he took the letter. Was it possible that some one had watched his going out—had even seen Harry going in the direction of the wood first, carrying the spade for his awful work? The spade! It had been left behind, in that half-dug grave; there had been no time even to think of it. All these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, in the few seconds during which the man handed him the letter—bowed respectfully—and retired.
Almost mechanically, he tore open the envelope, and unfolded the sheet within it.
“Dear Sir,
“It is imperative that you should see me at once. I use the term ‘imperative,’ because it is necessary that there should be no delay about the matter. Permit me to add that the business has reference to the draft, recently paid into my hands, and drawn by a Mr. Arthur Barnshaw. I must ask you, if quite convenient to yourself, to be good enough to call upon me, at my office, to-morrow (Thursday) before noon.
“I am, Dear Sir,
“Your obedient servant,