“There is the justice of the law,” he answered; “the man would be tried and hanged; I have thought of all that. I have pictured the dying scene, and had I lived such pleasure would that trial have given me, such exquisite bliss would I have felt in the moment that the murderer was breathing out his dying breath, that I could have wished for no greater gratification on earth; but you, child, are made of different metal, and I have thought of a way by which revenge will come, swift, sure, and terrible. None know better than I that a woman’s strength has its limits. I myself will direct the bolt which severs that wretch’s life from this fair earth. Now take my keys, go to the cupboard in the wall and open it.” Nancy walked across the room, fitted a key into the cupboard and turned the lock. “There is a packet on the upper shelf—bring it to me,” called the doctor to her. She raised her arms and lifted down a square box. It was neatly folded in brown paper, corded with strong cords and firmly sealed. “Bring it here,” said her father. She did so. “Lay it on the bed.” “Yes, father,” she replied; “what does it contain?” “Nancy, you are never to open the box.” “What am I to do with it?” “When you find the man who killed your brother, you are to give this unopened box to him. Give it to him, and when you do so, say, ‘Dr. Follett, the father of Anthony Follett, asked me to give you this.’ You need not add a word more. Keep the box until that supreme moment comes. Whatever else you part from, never let this box out of your keeping. Where you go take it, for any day or any night the need for it may arise. When you give it to the murderer and when he opens it, your brother’s blood will be avenged.” CHAPTER IV. AT THE BUNGALOW. Meanwhile Adrian Rowton had gone quickly back to the Bungalow. It was a truly bare and comfortless place. He kept only one servant, the rough-looking man who has been already described. Hearing his horse’s steps on the path outside, the man, Samson by name, came out to meet his master. He was a middle aged, strongly-built, square individual; his hair, which had once been red, was now turning to a grizzly grey; it grew thick on his low forehead and was cut very short, so short that it stood up like a thick brush all over his head. He had a bulldog sort of face, with a massive chin, deeply cleft in the middle; one eye was also decidedly smaller than the other. His name suited the man’s broad figure and muscular arms to perfection. “You are late to-night,” he said, addressing Adrian with a sort of growl. “I lay down by the horses and went to sleep; I thought when I heard the clock strike one that you were not coming.” “I was delayed on my way home from the station,” said Rowton briefly; “here, take Satyr, rub him down well and attend to him before you go to bed.” “Yes, sir. Do you want any supper?” “None that I can’t get for myself. Good-night, Samson; I shall not need your services before the morning.”