“RED HOUSE, CHAGFORD, DEVON.

     “To the Commandant, Royal Artillery, Plymouth.

“SIR,—­It has come to my knowledge that the man, William Blanchard, who enlisted in the Royal Artillery under the name of Tom Newcombe and deserted from his battery when it was stationed at Shorncliffe some ten years ago, now resides at this place on the farm of Monks Barton, Chagford.  My duty demands that I should lodge this information, and I can, of course, substantiate it, though I have reason to believe the deserter will not attempt to evade his just punishment if apprehended.  I have the honour to be,

     “Your obedient servant,

     “JOHN GRIMBAL,

     “Capt.  Dev.  Yeomanry.”

He had just completed this communication when Martin arrived, and as his brother entered he instinctively pushed the letter out of sight.  But a moment later he rebelled against himself for the act, knowing the ugly tacit admission represented by it.  He dragged forth the letter, therefore, and greeted his brother by thrusting the note before him.

“Read that,” he said darkly; “it will surprise you, I think.  I want to do nothing underhand, and as you’re linked to these people for life now, it is just that you should hear what is going to happen.  There’s the knowledge I once hinted to you that I possessed concerning William Blanchard.  I have waited and given him rope enough.  Now he’s hanged himself, as I knew he would, and I must act.  A few days ago he spoke disrespectfully of the Queen before a dozen other loafers in a public-house.  That’s a sin I hold far greater than his sin against me.  Read what I have just written.”

Martin gazed with mildness upon John’s savage and defiant face.  His brother’s expression and demeanour by no means chimed with the judicial moderation of his speech.  Then the antiquary perused the letter, and there fell no sound upon the silence, except that of a spluttering pen as John Grimbal addressed an envelope.

Presently Martin dropped the letter on the desk before him, and his face was very white, his voice tremulous as he spoke.

“This thing happened more than ten years ago.”

“It did; but don’t imagine I have known it ten years.”

“God forbid!  I think better of you.  Yet, if only for my sake, reflect before you send this letter.  Once done, you have ruined a life.  I have seen Will several times since I came home, and now I understand the terrific change in him.  He must have known that you know this.  It was the last straw.  He seems quite broken on the wheel of the world, and no wonder.  To one of his nature, the past, since you discovered this terrible secret, must have been sheer torment.”

John Grimbal doubled up the letter and thrust it into the envelope, while Martin continued: 

“What do you reap?  You’re not a man to do an action of this sort and live afterwards as though you had not done it.  I warn you, you intend a terribly dangerous thing.  This may be the wreck of another soul besides Blanchard’s.  I know your real nature, though you’ve hidden it so close of late years.  Post that letter, and your life’s bitter for all time.  Look into your heart, and don’t pretend to deceive yourself.”