ther of his family, nor of his sins, nor of the grand
fiasco, but solely of this physical action. Then, as he raised the
revolver, the fear troubled him that he had not burnt a particular
letter from a Jew in London, received on the previous day. 'Of course I
burnt it,' he assured himself. 'Did I, though?' He felt that a
mysterious volition over which he had no control would force him to
return to his office in order to make sure. He gave a weary curse at the
prospect of having to put back the revolver, leave the kiln, enter the
kiln again, and once more raise the revolver.

As he passed by the archway near the packing house the afternoon postman
appeared and gave him a letter. Without thinking he halted on the spot
and opened it. It was written in haste, and ran: 'My Dear Stanway,--I am
called away to London and _may_ have to sail for New York at once.
Sorry to have to break the appointment. We must leave that affair over.
In any case it could only be a mere matter of form. As I told you, I was
simply acting on behalf of my sister. My kindest regards to your wife
and your daughters. Believe me, yours very truly,--ARTHUR TWEMLOW.'

He read the letter a second time in his office, standing up against the
shut door. Then his eye wandered to the desk and he saw that an envelope
had been placed with mathematical exactitude in the middle of his
blotting-pad. 'Ryley!' he thought. This other letter was marked private,
and as the envelope said 'John Stanway, Esq.,' without an address, it
must have been brought by special messenger. It was from David Dain, and
stated that the difficulty as to the title of the house had been
settled, that the mortgage would be sent in for Mrs. Stanway to sign
that night, and that Stanway might safely draw against the money
to-morrow.

'My God!' he exclaimed, pushing his hat back from his brow. 'What a
chance!'

In five minutes he was drawing cheques, and simultaneously planning how
to get over the disappearance of the old private ledger in case Twemlow
should after all, at some future date, ask to see original documents.

'What a chance!' The thought ran round and round in his brain.

As he left the works by the canal side, he paused under Shawport Bridge
and furtively dropped the revolver into the water. 'That's done with!'
he murmured.

He saw now that his preparations for departure, which at the moment he
had deemed to be so well designed and so effective, were after all
ridiculous. No