few moments' silence, and then Myra spoke again faintly, but
with more composure.

"Yes, we trust you, Mr Guest. Don't think any more about what I said.
Come to me again soon with news. I shall be dying for your tidings.
Yes," she said, with a weary sigh, as she clung to his hand, "dying for
your news. Only promise me this; that you will not deceive me in any
way. If it is good or bad, you will come."

"You must know," said Guest quietly, "sooner or later. I will come and
tell you everything."

"Then go now--go to him."

"Your father? He will think it strange that I have been and gone
without seeing him."

"No; you have been to see us. I will tell him everything when we are
alone. Good-night."

"Good-night."

Guest hurried back to the inn, but all was dark there; and, on going on
to Sarum Street, he knocked at the door in vain.

"I can do no more," he said; and he went slowly back to his own rooms.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

AT FAULT.

It was from no dread of the consequences likely to ensue that Malcolm
Stratton paused with the burning paper in his hand. He knew that he had
but to drop it into the clear fluid beneath, for this to burst out into
a dancing crater of blue and orange flames. He knew, too, that the old
woodwork with which the antique place was lined would rapidly catch
fire, and that in a short time the chambers would be one roaring, fiery
furnace, and the place be doomed before the means of extinction could
arrive. He had no fear for self, for he felt that there would be time
enough to escape if he wished to save his life. But he did not drop the
blazing paper; letting it burn right to his fingers, and then crushing
it in his hand.

"There is no reason," he muttered, as he turned slowly back to his room.
"It would be madness now; there is nothing to conceal."

He sank into his chair, and sat back thinking and trying to piece
together all that had passed since the day when, full of life, joy, and
eagerness, he was ready to hurry off to the church. But his long
confinement, with neglect of self, and the weary hours he had passed
full of agony and despair, had impaired his power of arranging matters
in a calm, logical sequence, and he had to go twice to his bedroom to
bathe his burning head.

There was one point at which he sought to arrive--his present position,
and what he should do next. It came to him at last, and then he worked
himself up to the grasping of the facts, till