Walter would see to that all right.  A little false evidence apparently reluctantly given would be added, and all would be kneaded together into the one substance till the whole guilt of all that happened would appear to lie solely on his shoulders.

As for motive, it would simply be put forward that he had been in a hurry to succeed his uncle.  And very likely some tale of a quarrel with his father or something of that sort would be invented, and would go uncontradicted since there would be no one to contradict it.

And most probably what was contemplated at Wreste Abbey was no ordinary burglary, but the assassination of old Lord Chobham, of which the guilt would also be set down to him.

Very clearly now he realized that this tremendous plot was aimed, not only at life, but at honour—­that not only was his life required, but also that he should be thought a murderer.

With the realization of the danger that threatened at Wreste Abbey he turned and began to run back in the direction where it lay, that he might take timely warning there, but he did not run a dozen strides when he remembered Ella again, and paused.

Surely he must think of her first, alone and unprotected.  For she was the woman he loved; and besides, she had summoned him to her help, and then she was a woman, and at least, the others were men.

All this flood of thoughts, this intuitive grasping of a situation terrible beyond conception, almost unparalleled in bloody and dreadful horror, passed through his mind with extreme rapidity.

Once more he turned and began to run—­to run as he had never run before, for now he saw that all depended on the speed with which he could cover the eight miles that lay between him and Ottam’s Wood, whether he could still save his father or not.

The district was lonely in the extreme, there was no human habitation near, no place where he could obtain any help or any swift means of conveyance.  His one hope must be in his speed, his feet must be swift to save, not only his own life and his father’s, but his honour, too, and Ella and his old uncle as well; and all —­all hung upon the speed with which he could cover the eight long miles that lay between him and Brook Bourne Spring in Ottam’s Wood.  Even as he ran, as he thought of Ella, he came abruptly to a pause, wrung with sudden anguish.  For each fleet stride he was making towards Brook Bourne Spring was taking him further and further away from Bittermeads just as before each step to Bittermeads had been taking him further from Ottam’s Wood.

He began to run again, even faster than before, and it was towards Ottam’s Wood that he ran, each step taking him further from Bittermeads and further from the woman he loved in her bitter need and peril, who looked to him for the help he could not give.  With pain and anguish he ran on, ran as men have seldom run—­as seldom so much was hung upon their running.