I went down there with Jack Redhill, and we separated at the station.  I hung around in the fog.  I even saw you pass with Sibyl in the dogcart, but you didn’t see me.  I knew the place, and just where to hide where I could have the chance of seeing him alone.  But it was a beastly job waiting there.  I felt like a d——­d thief instead of a man who was simply visiting his own.  Yet, you mayn’t believe me, lad, but I hated the place and all it meant more than ever.  Then, by and by, I heard him coming.  I had arranged it all with myself to get into the yew hedge, and step out as he came to the garden entrance, and as soon as he recognized me to get him round the terrace into the summer house, where we could speak without danger.

I heard the groom drive away to the stable with the cart, and, sure enough, in a minute he came lurching along toward the garden door.  He was mighty unsteady on his pins, and I reckon he was more than half full, which was a bad lookout for our confab.  But I calculated that the sight of me, when I slipped out, would sober him.  And, by —–­, it did!  For his eyes bulged out of his head and got fixed there; his jaw dropped; he tried to strike at me with a hunting crop he was carrying, and then he uttered an ungodly yell you might have heard at the station, and dropped down in his tracks.  I had just time to slip back into the hedge again before the groom came driving back, and then all hands were piped, and they took him into the house.

And of course the game was up, and I lost my only chance.  I was thankful enough to get clean away without discovering myself, and I have to trust now to the fact of Bill’s being drunk, and thinking it was my ghost that he saw, in a touch of the jimjams!  And I’m not sorry to have given him that start, for there was that in his eye, and that in the stroke he made, my lad, that showed a guilty conscience I hadn’t reckoned on.  And it cured me of my wish to set his mind at ease.  He’s welcome to all the rest.

And that’s why I’m going away—­never to return.  I’m sorry I couldn’t take you with me, but it’s better that I shouldn’t see you again, and that you didn’t even know where I was gone.  When you get this I shall be on blue water and heading for the sunshine.  You’ll find two letters inclosed.  One you need not open unless you hear that my secret was blown, and you are ever called upon to explain your relations with me.  The other is my thanks, my lad, in a letter of credit on the bank, for the way you have kept your trust, and I believe will continue to keep it, to

John Dornton.

P.S.  I hope you dropped a tear over my swell tomb at Dornton Church.  All the same, I don’t begrudge it to the poor devil who lost his life instead of me.

J. D.