's; he could not tell
to what mad act it would lead him; he did not like a new look of fear
which, since her father's fainting fit, he had seen on Charlotte's
smooth brow; he did not like Mrs. Home coming and boldly declaring that
an injustice had been done; he felt that between them these foolish and
miserable people would pull a disgraceful old secret out of its grave,
unless he, Jasper Harman, could outwit them. What a blessing that that
other trustee was dead and buried, and that he, Jasper Harman, had
really stood over his grave. Yes, the secret which he and his brother
had guarded so faithfully for over twenty years might remain for ever
undiscovered if only common sense, the tiniest bit of common sense, was
exercised. Jasper paced his room as he thought of this. Yes, there could
be no fear, unless--here he stood still, and a cold dew of sudden terror
stole over him--suppose that young woman, that wronged young woman,
Charlotte Home, should take it into her head to go and read her father's
will. The will could not be put away. For the small sum of one shilling
she might go and master the contents, and then the whole fraud would be
laid bare. Was it likely that Mrs. Home would do this? Jasper had only
seen her for a moment, but during that brief glance he read
determination and fixity of purpose in her eyes and mouth. He must trust
that this thought would not occur to her; but what a miserable
uncertainty this was to live in! He did not know that the graver danger
lay still nearer home, and that his own niece Charlotte was already
putting the match to this mine full of gunpowder. No, clever as he
thought himself, he was looking for the danger at the front door, when
it was approaching him by the back.

After many days of most anxious thought he resolved to go and see the
Homes, for something must be done, and he could feel his way better if
he knew something of his opponents.

Getting Mr. Home's address in the Post Office Directory, for he would
not betray himself by questioning Charlotte, he started off one evening
to walk to Kentish Town. He arrived in the dusk, and by good fortune or
otherwise, as he liked best to term it, the curate was at home, and so
far disengaged as to be able to give him a little leisure time.

Jasper sent in his card, and the little maid, Anne, showed him into the
small parlor. There was a musty, unused smell in the dingy little room,
for Mrs. Home was still at Torquay, and the curate d