of you," she repeated. "I did not deserve it at all.
And now I must go and look for my father."

Mr. Thurwell was waiting in the hall, somewhat surprised at her
absence. But he asked no questions. His thoughts were too full of the
terrible thing which had happened to his friend and neighbor--and withal
his daughter's betrothed.

They walked back across the moor together, saying very little, for there
was only one possible subject for conversation, and both of them shrank
a little from speaking about it. But when they were more than half-way
to their destination, she asked a question.

"Nothing has been discovered, I suppose, of the murderer?"

Her father shook his head.

"Nothing. The dagger is our only clue as yet--except this."

He drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and touched it lightly
with his finger.

"What is it? May I see?"

He handed it to her at once.

"It was in his pocket," he said. "I am keeping it to hand over to the
proper authorities. Mr. Brown offered to take care of it, but I felt
that, as a magistrate, I was in a measure responsible for everything in
the shape of a clue, so I brought it away with me. Read it."

She opened the half sheet of notepaper and glanced down it. It was
written in a queer cramped handwriting--evidently disguised.

"Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, you are doing a very rash and foolish thing in
coming back to your own country, and thereby publishing your whereabouts
to the world. Have you forgotten what hangs over you--or can you be so
mad as to think that he has forgiven? Read this as a warning; and if
life is in any way dear to you, go back to that hiding which alone has
kept you safe for so many years. Do not hesitate or delay for one
half-hour--one minute may be too long. If, after reading this, you
linger in England, and disregard my warning, take care that you look
into your life and hold yourself prepared to die."

She gave it back to him. There was some one, then, whom he had injured
very deeply. It was like an echo from that stormy past of which many
people had spoken.

"He had an enemy," she murmured, passing her arm through her father's.

"It seems so," he answered. "A terrible enemy."

CHAPTER VII

HELEN THURWELL'S SUSPICIONS

On a certain September day, about six weeks after the funeral of Sir
Geoffrey Kynaston, Mr. Brown was spending what appeared to be a very
pleasant afternoon. He was lying stretched out at full length on a dry
mo