The squire—for so we are bound to call him, as he is Edward Marston no longer—turned the envelope about nervously. He dreaded to open it. Was it possible that at last the blow was about to fall? What he dreaded was the necessity for action. He would do anything rather than that the structure he had raised with so much labour should be pulled about his ears, but he feared the necessity for any active steps arising. He was tired of crime—he had washed his hands of it for ever; but rather than his sins should come to light and shame fall upon his dear ones, he knew there was no desperate deed he would not commit. He dreaded to find himself at bay. He hoped that the past was so securely buried that he would need to fling no fresh earth over it, and here was a letter from Seth Preene. What could it be about save the past? Nerving himself with an effort, he opened the envelope and read the letter at a glance. It fell from his hands, and he rose from his chair and paced the room. ‘Curse him!’ he muttered. ‘Why couldn’t he stay where he was? Have I not suffered enough already, that this scoundrel must turn up to be the terror of my life?—now, now, when at last I had begun to feel secure.’ He picked up the letter and read it carefully again: ‘Dear Sir, ‘Heckett is back. From what I have discovered he means mischief. I ought to see you at once.’ ‘How dared he come back?’ exclaimed the squire angrily. ‘He cannot have found out the trick played upon him. What does Preene mean by “he means mischief”? What has he discovered? Ah! I must see Preene at ones. I wouldn’t have an unknown danger hanging over my head now for worlds. It would kill me.’ The squire sat moodily in his chair and gazed across the broad acres that were his. He would have given them all to be free at this moment from the dread which had once again taken possession of his breast. ‘Poor Ruth!’ he murmured; ‘if she only kuew what a miserable wretch I am! How I play an odious comedy every time I smile! I must see Preene and know the worst.’ He sat down to his desk and commenced a letter, bidding Preene come down; but before it was finished he tore it up and flung it into the fire. ‘Better not,’ he muttered; ‘this place has never been polluted yet by any of the gang except myself. I’ll keep it pure as long as I can.’ Then he wrote a fresh note. It was to the effect that he would be in town at a certain time on the morrow and Preene was to meet him. He signed it with his old initials, E. M., and, having directed it in a running hand utterly unlike his own, he went out and posted it in the village himself. He felt inexpressibly mean and guilty and miserable. As he walked home he fell into one of his fits of depression. He anticipated the worst. There was an end to his fool’s paradise at last. On the morrow he would have to be scheming, and might, for all he knew, be drawn into the old vortex again. His only safety from the past might lie in a fresh crime.