the man's tread, fearing we
had been spied upon and discovered. But I now knew there was no danger
of that kind, for the voice belonged to old Bill Meadows.

"What do you mean?" I asked sharply, annoyed at the interruption.

"Nothin'. Read this here. I've follered yuh all evenin', thinkin' to
ketch yuh alone. I gev my word to get it to yuh, fust thing; an' fur
my own sake, I tried to do it unbeknownst. But now I must do it anyhow
I ken. So take it, an' my compliments, an' I trust yuh to keep mum an'
ask no questions, an' furget 'twas me brung it. And I'll keep a shet
mouth about these here goings on. Only read it now, fur God's sake."

He had handed me a sealed letter. My curiosity being much excited, I
turned to Falconer, and said:

"Will you grant me permission? 'Twill take but a moment."

"Certainly," said he.

"Ay," added Chubb, against all the etiquette of the situation, "it can
be allowed, as you're not like to read any more letters."

I tore it open, disdaining to reply in words to a gratuitous taunt I
could soon answer by deed. The doctor having handed me his lantern, I
held it in one hand, the letter in the other. The writing was that of
Philip Winwood, and the letter read as follows:

"DEAR BERT:--I have learned what sad things have befallen. You
will easily guess my informant; but I know you will not use your
knowledge of my communication therewith, to the detriment
thereof. And I am sure that, since I ask it, you will not betray
(or, by any act or disclosure, imperil or hamper) the messenger
who brings this at risk of his life; for the matter is a private
one.

"Pondering upon all that has occurred, I am put in a fear of your
forgetting whose right it is to avenge it, and of your taking
that duty to yourself, which belongs by every consideration to
me. This is to beg, therefore, that you will not forestall me;
that while I live you will leave this matter to me, at whatsoever
cost though it be to your pride and your impatience. Dear Bert, I
enjoin you, do not usurp my prerogative. By all the ties between
us, past and to come, I demand this of you. _The man is mine to
kill_. Let him wait my time, and I shall be the more, what I long
have been, Ever thine,

"PHILIP."

I thought over it for a full minute. He asked of me a grievous
disappointment; nay, something of a humiliation, too, so highly had I
carried myself, so triumpha