letter I wrote you to this address more than a week ago?

"Letter!--what letter?" he queried, with a half-mazed look, and with that he pushed back his hat and pressed his hands to his forehead for a few moments, as if trying to recall something to mind. Then, half-doubtingly, he thrust his hand into an inner pocket of his coat and drew from it a letter--the one Hermia had written him, as she saw at a glance, and still unopened. He stared at it for a space of a dozen seconds, and then he said, confusedly:

"I recollect, now, I put it in my pocket when it came--I wasn't very well at the time--and afterwards I forgot all about it. I did, upon my honor!"

"Open it and read it," was all Hermia could say.

When he had done so, he looked at her with a question in his eyes which his lips seemed afraid to ask.

"Your mother died three days ago," said Hermia, "looking to the last for the son who never came."

He turned away, and putting up an arm against the door-post, he leaned his head upon it. The tears that dropped from his eyes made tiny black dents in the grimy dust into which they fell.

"I've not one word of excuse, Miss Hermia, to urge for myself," he said presently. "I put the letter in my pocket, and forgot all about it. It was all owing to the drink--the cursed drink!"

Thereupon Hermia proceeded to give him his mother's last message.

"God bless her! She was a good woman," he said, sorrowfully. "Maybe, if I had been a different son to her she would have lived for years to come."

That he was genuinely moved by the news of his mother's death it was impossible to doubt.

"The errand which brought me here is not yet completed," said Hermia, presently. "Your mother entrusted me with a sum of money to give into your hands."

His cheek paled on the instant. "Hush! Not a word about it here," he whispered, with a quick, apprehensive glance around. "If the wretches hereabouts once suspected that I had anything more than the merest trifle in the way of money in my possession, I should be a dead man before to-morrow morning. Will you come into my room for three minutes, Miss Rivers? You may safely do so, and I won't detain you longer."

Mr. Wingate was still keeping watch and ward at the corner of the street. "Lead the way and I will follow," was all she said.

Accordingly, they entered the house, and after Varrel had shut the door behind them he led the way up a rickety staircase, the handrail of which had been torn away, into a small back room on the first floor. Never before had Hermia been in such a room; but the evening was drawing in by this time, and in the half light its more sordid features did not seem so obtrusive as they would have done at mid-day.

"Not a palace, truly, Miss Rivers," he said, with a shrug and a cynical smile, "but cheerful, homelike, nay, almost luxurious in comparison with some of its neighbors."

Hermia's only reply was an involuntary shudder.

Motioning her to the one chair in the place, he seated himself on the edge of a box, and cut the string of the parcel, which Hermia had handed him on entering the room. Before him lay the envelope and its contents, together with the bag of gold. He looked up, and his and Hermia's eyes met.

"This," he said, laying a finger on the envelope, "my mother was to keep for me until I should choose to reclaim it; but this," shifting his finger to the bag, "was for her sole use, as I told her when I gave it her--to buy whatever she wanted, and help to make her comfortable."

"Your mother refused to touch it, Mr. Varrel," replied Hermia, looking him steadily in the face.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, with startling suddenness. "Who told you she would not touch it?"

"She herself. She said there was blood on it--those were her words--and that she would have nothing to do with it till you had proved to her how you had come by it."

He sat for some seconds without speaking or stirring, like one in doubt what to do or say next. Then he said, sneeringly:

"Old people when they lie dying often get strange fancies into their heads, and give expression to all manner of ridiculous things. Sensible people take no heed of their ravings at such times."

"On the contrary, it is at such times that secrets long hidden come unexpectedly to light."

He bit his lip as if to restrain himself from saying something which he might afterwards have regretted. Having glanced at the seal, he was about to put the envelope into his pocket unopened, when Hermia said:

"Mr. Varrel, have you noticed what is written outside that packet?"

"No--what is it?" he demanded.

In the twilight he had overlooked the writing. He now crossed to the window and read it. Then for a little space he stood stock still, with eyes that seemed fixed on vacancy. Then, going back to his seat, he said dryly:

"My mother's writing, without a doubt, Miss Rivers. But it was scarcely worth while--was it?--to draw my attention specially to it."

"You are quite aware of my motive in drawing your attention to it." responded Hermia. "Those words were written within twenty-four hours of the time Mr. Hazeldine was found murdered."

He put down the packet with a sudden movement, as if it had scorched his fingers.

"Oh, Mr. Varrel!" cried, the girl, clasping her hands in front of her bosom, as if thereby to enforce her appeal, "if you know anything whatever in connection with that terrible crime--if you have any clue, even the faintest, to the perpetrator of it--I implore you no longer to conceal it."

Varrel got up abruptly, and, crossing to the window, stood staring out of it with his back towards her. Hermia waited till the silence became all but unbearable.

"I am quite at a loss, Miss Rivers," he began at length, speaking in a hard, dry voice, "to know why you should address so singular an appeal to me, or assume that I know anything more about Mr. Hazeldine's tragical end than is known to the world at large. A certain remark made by an old woman--a certain coincidence of date in connection with a parcel of banknotes--such is the flimsy superstructure round which you choose to build an imaginary theory, and then appeal to me for facts to enable you to substantiate it. No, Miss Rivers, it won't do. Your house of cards has no foundation beyond that which is supplied by your own vivid imagination. Pray accept my assurance on that score. The way in which the money, both gold and notes, came into my mother's hands is easily explained. I had won it over a certain race a few days before. The gold, as I have already remarked, I gave to her for her own use. That she did not choose to benefit by it is no fault of mine. The notes, which were intended by me for a very special purpose, I asked her to take charge of till the time should come for me to reclaim them, knowing well, as I did, that if I kept them by me, they would inevitably disappear after the fashion in which so many of their kind had disappeared already. The explanation is a simple one. I trust that you are satisfied."

He had come back to the table while speaking. Tearing open the envelope with an air of manifest defiance, he extracted the notes from it, and proceeded to stuff them unceremoniously into his pocket.

But Hermia was far from being satisfied. She felt instinctively that he was prevaricating, and that he knew far more than he cared to tell. But, in face of his emphatic denial, what was it possible for her to do more than she had done already? His manner implied that, as far as he was concerned, the interview was at an end, and, indeed, Hermia felt that it was high time for her to go. There was upon her a sense of hopeless bewilderment as she rose and pushed back her chair. She was like one groping in the mazes of a dark cavern, who, while feeling sure the daylight is close at hand, vainly strives to find the way which will lead him to it. She would have to go back to Ashdown no wiser than she had left it.

"Before you go, Miss Rivers," said Varrel, "permit me to thank you, which I do from the bottom of my heart, for all your kindness to my poor mother."

He added a little more in the same strain, which it is not needful to repeat.

Three minutes later Hermia had rejoined Mr. Wingate.