reached the sitting-room, Stewart Routh sat
down by the window and fell into a fit of
musing as deep as those in which Harriet Routh
passed hours away.

Mr. James Swain went briskly down the
street, pleasantly conscious that the unexpected
windfall of the shilling had released him from
the labours of his calling for the day, and
determined to proceed at once to lay it out to
the greatest advantage.

"Wotever is he up to now?" Thus ran
the street-boy's thoughts. "I'm sure he's
jealous, or he wouldn't be coming home
unexpected, and a watchin' of her like that.
Ain't he a brute just? And a willin too?
Well, I'm glad I ain't sure—I'm very glad
I ain't sure."

With this enigmatical phrase, Mr. James
Swain abandoned his mental colloquy, and
directed his thoughts to more immediately
personal matters.

Routh was still sitting by the window when
Harriet returned, and with the first glance at
his face she saw that something new had
occurred.

"I did not expect you home until six
o'clock," she said, as she laid aside her bonnet,
and stood by his side, laying her hand tenderly
upon his shoulder.

"No," he returned; "I came home to get
some papers for Flinders about the Tunbridge
Canal business; but you have them, Harry, and
you were out."

"Well?" she said, calmly, looking at him
with questioning eyes. "What has happened,
Stewart?"

"This," he returned, slowly, and without
meeting her gaze. "As I came in I met the
postman with this letter. Read if, and tell me
what is to be done."

She sat down close beside him, and took the
letter he held towards her. It was addressed to
George Dallas, to the care of Routh, and it
was, in fact, the letter which Mr. Carruthers
had written to his step-son prior to his departure
from Poynings. As Harriet read, her
right hand sought her husband's, and held it
tightly. The old look of quiet resolution, the
old expression of confident resource, came into
her face. She jead the paper twice before she
spoke.

"Stewart," she said, "this is only another
head of the hydra, and we had counted them,
had we not? What we have to decide is,
whether this letter shall be suppressed, or
whether it must be forwarded to George Dallas.
At first sight, I see no possibility of suppressing
it without infinite danger, but this is only first
sight, and we may see more clearly
afterwards."

"Dallas has never said anything to you
about letters from his mother, has he?" asked
Routh.

"No," replied Harriet, "not since his second
letter, when he said he supposed she was
testing his repentance and good conduct, and
that he would not write until he could give her
some proof of both."

"Get the old woman's letter, and let us read
it again."

Harriet went to her writing-table, opened a
drawer, and took a paper from its recesses. It
was the letter which Mrs. Brookes had written
to George Dallas. The two read it carefully,
and Harriet spoke first.

"We can only conjecture the meaning of
this, Stewart; but, as I make it out, it means
that the proceedings at the—the inquest"—
she paused almost imperceptibly, then went on,
in a steady tone—"awakened his mother's fears.
It was lucky he told us the story of his mother's
anxiety about his coat, or we should have failed
to catch the clue. Now I read the riddle thus:
Mrs. Carruthers has been dangerously ill in
consequence of the shock of the discovery, but
she has not betrayed her knowledge or
suspicions. A good deal of time has been gained,
and under any circumstances that is a priceless
advantage. The question now is, can any more
time be gained? Can George Dallas be kept in
ignorance of the appearances against him any
longer? The suppression of the old woman's
letter was an easy matter. It is ill-written,
you see, as servants' letters usually are,
indistinctly addressed, and generally unimportant.
But a letter written by Mr. Carruthers of
Poynings is quite another matter. It must come
out, some time or other, that it was not
received, and he is precisely the man to
investigate the matter to the utmost. No, no, the
letter must be sent to Dallas."

She spoke firmly, but her eyes were dreamy
and distant. Routh knew their expression, and
that some expedient, some resolve, was shaping
itself in her mind. He sat quite silent until
she spoke again.

"The first thing we have to do is to ascertain
with all possible exactitude the real condition of
Mrs. Carruthers, where she is at present, and
whether we are right in supposing her fears
were excited. This letter is not calculated to
bring George home, I think. Of course, if it
had reached him before they left Poynings, he
would have come home at once; but, see, Mr.
Carruthers writes on the 10th, and says they are
to start on the 11th. This is the 13th. What
is the postmark?"

"Dover," said Routh, handing her the
envelope.

"Posted after they left England, no doubt,"
said Harriet. "Stewart, there is just one thing
to be done. Let us move from this at once. It
is only doing so a little sooner than we had
intended. Then, if we decide on suppressing
the letter, its loss may be accounted for, even
to the satisfaction of Mr. Carruthers. This
while we consider what must be done."

"Yes," said Routh, "I think that will be
wise; but I do not see my way out of the danger
of his return, if he returns when he has received
the letter. He will go down to Amherst at once,
and will discover the suspicion, and at once take
steps to clear himself of it."

"Perhaps so," said Harriet, and her face
darkened, "but he may not find that so easy. I