“I wish I could do without him,” thought the treacherous little scoundrel as he left his own property and struck across the waste ground beyond the park wall.  “But I can’t, dash it all, since he’s the only person who saw the crime actually committed.  ’Course he’ll get jailed as an accessory-after-the-fact:  but when he comes out I’ll give him a thousand or so if the old woman parts.  At all events, I’ll see what Silver is prepared to do, and then I’ll call on old Cockleshell and make things right with her.  Hang it,” Freddy had a qualmish feeling.  “The exposure won’t be pleasant for me over that unlucky letter, but if I can snaffle a million, it’s worth it.  Curse the honor of the family, I’ve got to look after myself somehow.  Ho! ho!” he chuckled as he remembered his cousin.  “What a sell for Noel when he finds that I’ve taken the wind out of his sails.  Serve him jolly well right.”

In this way Garvington kept up his spirits during the walk, and felt entirely cheerful and virtuous by the time he reached the cottage.  In the thin, cold moonlight, the wintry wood looked spectral and wan.  The sight of the frowning monoliths, the gaunt, frozen trees and the snow-powdered earth, made the luxurious little man shiver.  Also the anticipated conversation rather daunted him, although he decided that after all Silver was but a feeble creature who could be easily managed.  What Freddy forgot was that he lacked pluck himself, and that Silver, driven into a corner, might fight with the courage of despair.  The sight of the secretary’s deadly white and terrified face as he opened the door sufficient to peer out showed that he was at bay.

“If you come in I’ll shoot,” he quavered, brokenly.  “I’ll—­I’ll brain you with the poker.  I’ll throw hot water on you, and—­and scratch out your—­your—­”

“Come, come,” said Garvington, boldly.  “It’s only me—­a friend!”

Silver recognized the voice and the dumpy figure of his visitor.  At once he dragged him into the passage and barred the door quickly, breathing hard meanwhile.  “I don’t mind you,” he giggled, hysterically.  “You’re in the same boat with me, my lord.  But I fancied when you knocked that the police—­the police”—­his voice died weakly in his throat:  he cast a wild glance around and touched his neck uneasily as though he already felt the hangman’s rope encircling it.

Garvington did not approve of this grim pantomime, and swore.  “I’m quite alone, damn you,” he said roughly.  “It’s all right, so far!” He sat down and loosened his overcoat, for the place was like a Turkish bath for heat.  “I want a drink.  You’ve been priming yourself, I see,” and he pointed to a decanter of port wine and a bottle of brandy which were on the table along with a tray of glasses.  “Silly ass you are to mix.”

“I’m—­I’m—­keeping up my—­my spirits,” giggled Silver, wholly unnerved, and pouring out the brandy with a shaking hand.  “There you are, my lord.  There’s water, but no soda.”