The qualm of conscience relative to Jason was overpassed, and now Pepperill congratulated himself on his success. Now—all was as could be desired, there was nothing to inculpate him, no one to turn evidence against him, except— There was one person, and one only, who was a danger to Pasco; one person, and one only, who knew that he had been to Coombe Cellars after having ostensibly left it; one, and one only, that he had been on the spot precisely at the time when, presumably, the fire broke out. If Kate Quarm were to speak, then what he had done was done in vain; the Company would refuse to pay the sum for which his stock was insured, and he might be suspected of having caused the death of his brother-in-law. Would not Kate speak—when she knew that her father was dead? Might she not make dangerous admissions should there be an inquest? The charred corpse or burnt bones would be discovered when the ashes of the store were removed, and Jason’s cart and ass being in Coombe, would lead to the conclusion that he, Jason Quarm, had caused the conflagration and had perished in it. It would be supposed that he had gone to the Cellars, and, finding it locked and no one within, had taken shelter for the night in the warehouse, where he had lit his pipe, gone to sleep, and inadvertently had set fire to the coals and wool. But then—what might Kate be brought to say if questioned by the coroner? Pepperill entered the shed and called the girl. He called twice before he received an answer. Then he struck a light, and as the match flared he saw before him the drowsy face of Kate. “Oh, uncle! What a long time you have been away! I fell asleep.” “Long time? I have not been a quarter of an hour. I ran to the Cellars and ran back the whole way.” “It has been more than a quarter of an hour, Uncle Pasco. I waited, watching for ever such a time, and then I went to sleep.” “You are mistaken. Because you shut your eyes you think the time was long.” “What is that, uncle, you are burning?” “A lucifer match.” “How did you get it alight?” “By striking it on the box.” "How could that light it? Is there a bit of tiny flint on the match and steel on the box? “No, there is not. I don’t know how the fire comes—but it comes somehow.” “That must be a very curious contrivance, uncle.” “Whether curious or not is no concern of yours.” He struck another match and held it aloft. The girl stood on one side of the cart, he on the other. The lucifer flame twinkled in her eyes. Her hair was ruffled with sleep. As Pasco looked at her by the dying flame, he was considering what to do. He had no doubt that he was insecure so long as she lived. Desperate, hardened, projected along an evil course, could he withhold his hand now and not make himself secure? Would it not be weakness as well as folly to allow this testimony to remain who could at any moment reveal his guilt? But if he were to strike her down with a stake or stone, what could he do with the body?