done. A letter would do that--a forged letter--and that would
be prepared for him nicely. Oh, no, no! of course he wouldn't be hanged.
Means would be provided to prevent that. He would be so deeply
compromised, however, that there would be no possibility of his escaping
but by death, and the means of bringing that about would be conveniently
supplied him. A swift but painless poison; or, perhaps, a bottle of
ether--something of the sort. No pain, no suffering, all over in a
minute or two; then "darling Harry" would come into everything, and the
clever little forged letter would explain everything away.

Would it? Cleek's jaws clamped together as the thought came, Would it,
indeed? Well, _he'd_ see that it wouldn't, then! If any one was to
suffer it should be the guilty, not the innocent; they should never pull
that game off to the end of time.

The forged letter, eh? Ah, be sure that Harry Raynor would take means to
preserve it and to have it handy against the time of need. And be sure,
too, that Margot would instruct him with the utmost carefulness just how
to act with regard to it, and just where to keep it in order to make
everything appear natural and in accordance with what he was to tell to
his friend, Mr. Barch, in order to set the ball rolling. Claimed to have
received it this afternoon, didn't he? So, of course, it would be in the
pocket of the coat he had worn at the time. Had to change into evening
clothes for dinner, and was in evening clothes still. So, of course----

The thought had no more than shaped itself in Cleek's mind before he put
it into action. As swiftly and as soundlessly as he had left the house
he now returned to it. But whereas he had gone out unsuspected and
unseen, it now became manifest that he was not to be permitted to enjoy
the same privilege in returning, for as he stepped into the hall he came
face to face with Hawkins advancing from the direction of the servants'
staircase.

"Out for another ramble in quest of a new plot you see, Hawkins," he
said gayly as he entered. "The woes of the novelist are many when plots
come slowly. Where's Mr. Harry--upstairs or in the drawing-room with the
ladies?"

"Neither, Mr. Barch, sir. Still sitting in the dining-room. Just on my
way there with a message. Shall I say that you will rejoin him there,
sir?"

"No, not at present, thanks. Just going upstairs to change my shoes--the
grass is very damp. By the way, Hawkins, do you happen to know wha