It was a letter. " "They know. " "To-morrow will be too late," said Sheppard, moodily. ‘You will release me at once, imbecile. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night.
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