“Hold on a minute.  Here’s su’thin’ fur you, Ensign Russell.”

We had all turned at the first sound of the man’s tread, fearing we had been spied upon and discovered.  But I now knew there was no danger of that kind, for the voice belonged to old Bill Meadows.

“What do you mean?” I asked sharply, annoyed at the interruption.

“Nothin’.  Read this here.  I’ve follered yuh all evenin’, thinkin’ to ketch yuh alone.  I gev my word to get it to yuh, fust thing; an’ fur my own sake, I tried to do it unbeknownst.  But now I must do it anyhow I ken.  So take it, an’ my compliments, an’ I trust yuh to keep mum an’ ask no questions, an’ furget ’twas me brung it.  And I’ll keep a shet mouth about these here goings on.  Only read it now, fur God’s sake.”

He had handed me a sealed letter.  My curiosity being much excited, I turned to Falconer, and said: 

“Will you grant me permission?  ’Twill take but a moment.”

“Certainly,” said he.

“Ay,” added Chubb, against all the etiquette of the situation, “it can be allowed, as you’re not like to read any more letters.”

I tore it open, disdaining to reply in words to a gratuitous taunt I could soon answer by deed.  The doctor having handed me his lantern, I held it in one hand, the letter in the other.  The writing was that of Philip Winwood, and the letter read as follows: 

“DEAR BERT:—­I have learned what sad things have befallen.  You will easily guess my informant; but I know you will not use your knowledge of my communication therewith, to the detriment thereof.  And I am sure that, since I ask it, you will not betray (or, by any act or disclosure, imperil or hamper) the messenger who brings this at risk of his life; for the matter is a private one.

“Pondering upon all that has occurred, I am put in a fear of your forgetting whose right it is to avenge it, and of your taking that duty to yourself, which belongs by every consideration to me.  This is to beg, therefore, that you will not forestall me; that while I live you will leave this matter to me, at whatsoever cost though it be to your pride and your impatience.  Dear Bert, I enjoin you, do not usurp my prerogative.  By all the ties between us, past and to come, I demand this of you. The man is mine to kill.  Let him wait my time, and I shall be the more, what I long have been, Ever thine,

    “PHILIP.”

I thought over it for a full minute.  He asked of me a grievous disappointment; nay, something of a humiliation, too, so highly had I carried myself, so triumphant had my enemy Chubb become in anticipation, so derisive would he be in case of my withdrawal.

If I receded, Chubb would have ground to think the message a device to get me out of a peril at the last moment, after I had pretended to face it so intrepidly thereunto.  For I could not say what my letter contained, or who it was from, without betraying Meadows and perhaps Mr. Faringfield, which both Philip’s injunction and my own will prohibited my doing.  Thus, I hesitated awhile before yielding to Philip what he claimed so rightly as his own.  But I am glad I had the courage to face Chubb’s probable suspicions and possible contempt.