"It's too late to wish that," replied Jack, significantly; and then he resumed grooming the horse, while with a moody brow and an uneasy heart Henderson returned to the house, feeling that he would be almost sure to be called to account for the letter he had written the day before to poor Elsie Wray. And he was. The afternoon had not passed when a police-constable arrived at Stourton Grange and asked to see Mr. Henderson. With a sinking heart he went to this interview, and the policeman informed him that he was the bearer of a summons for him to be present at the inquiry to be held on the death of Elsie Wray during the following morning. "And I've one for your groom, Jack Reid, Mr. Henderson," continued the policeman, with his eyes fixed searchingly on Henderson's changing face; "he delivered a letter it seems to Miss Wray on the day of her death." "Yes," faltered Henderson; "but I did not go near." "You must reserve your evidence until you are before the coroner, and you had better give it carefully," and with these warning words the policeman took his departure, leaving Henderson a prey to the most morbid dread. And scarcely had the constable gone when Mrs. Henderson crept into the room with an almost colorless face. "Tom," she said, in trembling accents, "what has that man been here for?" "I've to attend the inquest on that girl found in Fern Dene to-morrow morning," answered Henderson, huskily, turning away his head. "They say it's the girl from the Wayside Inn. Oh, Tom, did you go and meet her?" asked Mrs. Henderson, piteously. "I never went near her; but, mother, a confounded thing has happened. I was ass enough to write to her to ask her to meet me; I wanted to buy her off, in fact. When I was almost a boy I got entangled with her, and she was always urging some claims or other that she thought she had against me, and I wanted to pay her a big sum and be done with it. Well, I asked her to meet me last night, but I did not go. I went out for a short time, as you remember, and then I turned back and came home. If you are questioned you must say I was home early, or never out. Do you understand? They will want to throw suspicion on me on account of the confounded letter I wrote. The girl must have gone, I suppose, and shot herself because I did not go, for her father's revolver was lying beside her." Mrs. Henderson had turned absolutely white during this garbled narrative. From this hour she never doubted her son's guilt. She looked at him with terror-stricken eyes, but no word came from her trembling lips. "You must say I was home early; only out a few minutes," repeated Henderson, doggedly, and almost with a gasp Mrs. Henderson whispered out a few words. "You were--at home early," she said. "That's it; you mayn't be asked, but that's your answer, and now I'll go out for a walk, for I've a disgusting headache still." He turned and went out of the room as he spoke, and Mrs. Henderson leaned against the table for support.