‘It might have been an accident,’ suggested George. ‘No, it was my life against his, and he knew it. I knew too much, and he feared as I should peach, and so he thought to settle me that way. You saved me, and it’s the rummest thing as ever was. One ‘ud think it was to be.’ At last George yielded to Heckett’s solicitation to let him go his own way to work. So far he was already benefited by the acquaintance. The house was Heckett’s. For reasons of his own he kept it to himself entirely, and there George and Bess could remain for a while safe from pursuit. Safe until Heckett’s great scheme of vengeance was ripe, and then the old man swore to George he should stand boldly before the world and unmask the author of all his misery and sufferings. CHAPTER LVII. SQUIRE HERITAGE HAS A BAD ATTACK. On the morning after the attempted murder and the rescue of Josh Heckett in Hyde Park, Mrs. Heritage rose early and came downstairs. She had not slept all night, and she was thoroughly miserable. Her husband had been up in town several days, and she had never had a line from him. She invented a story to tell her mother and Gertie when they asked where the squire was; but she was terribly distressed by his extraordinary conduct, and his cruelty in leaving her without any news of him. She was terrified lest there was something in the old life which he had kept from her and which was now troubling him. A thousand nameless fears floated across her brain and caused her the most terrible mental torture. She remembered his wild youth, their long separation, and the tales that she had heard from time to time. But their married life hitherto had given the lie to calumny. He had been a tender and devoted husband, and there had been nothing to show that he had anything to trouble him, save those occasional fits of depression which he assured her were constitutional. Suddenly all had changed. He had broken out fiercely, spoken cruelly to her, and gone away without giving her the slightest clue to his whereabouts. What could it mean? This morning she went into the breakfast-room to feed her birds—to do anything to divert her mind from painful thoughts—and there she found her husband. He must have come back by the first train and entered the house directly the servants were up, for she had heard no bell ring. When she entered the room he was sitting by the fire, his head bent down and his hands clasped. He raised his head at the sound of her approach, and she started back and gave a little cry of terror. His face was ashy white, his eyes were bloodshot, and a strange hunted look in them that she had never seen before. ‘Edward!’ she cried, running to him and falling on her knees beside him—‘Edward, you are ill!’ He raised her gently. ‘No, Ruth,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing. Don’t make a fuss, there’s a good girl. Give me the brandy out of the cellaret.’ Ruth took her keys from the little basket she carried, and gave him the brandy.