He looked once at Madge's pale and lovely face—he felt that it was for the last time—and then he took Hawkins by the arm and pulled him half-forcibly into the hall.
"Tell me everything," he whispered, excitedly. "What has happened?"
"There isn't much to tell, Mr. Nevill," the man replied. "Two Scotland Yard men came to the shop at five o'clock. They arrested my employer for stealing that Rembrandt from Lamb and Drummond, and they found the picture in the safe. Mr. Foster asked permission to make a statement in writing—he took things coolly:—and they let him do it. He wrote for half an hour, and then, before the police could stop him, he snatched a pistol from a drawer and shot himself through the head. I was so flustered I hardly knew what I was doing, but I thought first of Miss Madge, whom I knew from often bringing messages and parcels to the house—"
"The statement? What was in it?" Nevill interrupted.
"I don't know, sir!"
"Then I must find out! I am off to town—I can't stop! You will be needed here, Hawkins. Do all that you can for Miss Foster."
With those words, spoken incoherently, Nevill jammed on his hat and hurried from the house. He turned instinctively toward Grove Park, remembering that the nearest railway station was there. He was haunted by a terrible fear as he traversed the dark streets with an unsteady gait. Worse than ruin threatened him. He shuddered at the thought of arrest and punishment. He could not doubt that Stephen Foster had written a full confession.
"He would do it out of revenge—I put the screws on him too often!" he reflected. "I must get to my rooms before the police come; all my money is there. And I must cross the Channel to-night!"
All the past rose before him, and he cursed himself for his blind follies. He just missed a train at Chiswick station, and in desperation he took a cab to Gunnersbury and caught a Mansion House train. He got out at St. James' Park, and pulling his coat collar up he hastened across to Pall Mall. He chose the shortest cut to Jermyn street, and on the north side of St. James' Square, in the shadow of the railings, he suddenly encountered the last man he could have wished to meet.
"My God, my uncle!" he cried, staggering back.