‘Ah, if Master Philip had not been in such a pickle with his own affairs, I’d have gone to him now, and he would have told me what was best to do, even though the villain be his own brother. But it would be a mortal shame to put more trouble on him when he’s down enough already. I’ll go my own way.’ All these things were careering through his mind, as he stood under the portico wondering how he should act. He heard a casement open above—it seemed to be directly over his head—and Captain Hadleigh shouted: ‘You’d better move off quietly, Kersey, or I’ll call our fellows and send for the police.’ The casement was closed violently, the two sides banging together, the principal windows of the Manor opening on hinges like doors, in the French fashion. Caleb stepped out from beneath the portico and looked up. There was a ruddy glow—the effect of the light shining through deep maroon-coloured curtains—in two windows on the first floor. One of these windows opened on to the top of the portico which formed part of a balcony. That was the one from which Hadleigh must have spoken, thought Caleb; and was immediately satisfied on the point by seeing the shadow of a man who was passing slowly between the light and the curtains. ‘The stable ain’t far off, and I can find a ladder there,’ muttered Caleb, moving away from the front of the house. * * * * * Mr Hadleigh, sen., was seated at his writing-table, his back towards the windows. Before him lay those sheets of manuscript which he had written at intervals during the past year. The broad shade on the lamp cast the soft light down on the table, and had it not been for the bright glow of a huge fire, the rest of the room—and especially the upper part—would have been in comparative darkness. As it was, the flickering flame of the fire made the shadows above and around him flutter and change like living things. He was not writing. He was carefully separating certain pages from the others; having done so, he fastened them together neatly, and with his hand covering them, as if to hide the words from himself, he leaned back on his chair. Suddenly he rose and paced the floor slowly in melancholy reflection. When he resumed his seat, there was a placid expression on his face, like that of one who, after a long mental struggle, has come to a final decision and found peace. With as much sad deliberation as if he were committing a dear one to the grave, he placed the separate packets of manuscript in different envelopes. The first and largest he addressed in a bold clear hand, ‘_To Mrs Philip Hadleigh. To be opened after my death._’ Over the second packet his pen was poised for some moments, and his hand was not so steady as before when he began to write. ‘_To my son, Philip Hadleigh. To be opened after my death and read by him alone. When he has read, he shall decide whether to burn at once or first to show it to his wife. The secret of my life is here._’