“I tell you I shall not hide,” said Philip, quietly. “Come away; I won’t have you mixed up in the business. Why—dear lad”—he dropped his hand, for a moment, on the other’s shoulder—“there’s a sweet girl, whom you love, and who loves you, I’ll be bound, no matter what she may say. Your life is straight before you; you mustn’t throw it away on me.” He turned, and went in the direction he had come, looking behind him once, to be certain that the other was following. Suddenly remembering that he was like a blind man, groping his way, and having no desire to go near Madge Barnshaw’s house again, he turned abruptly, when he had gone a little way, and motioned to Harry to go before him. “Lead the way,” he said, in the old tone of authority—“I want to be sure that you don’t go back again.” Harry passed him, with bent head, and walked in front. And in that order they came to Chater Hall. Once inside the home which he felt was rightly his, and surrounded by the quiet and luxurious repose of it, the mood of the man changed. He was but young, and life was very, very sweet. Quixotism, self-sacrifice, despair; all these things went to the winds. He was a hunted man, playing a desperate game with chance, with his life for the stake. Figuratively speaking, he had his back to the wall; and he meant to make a fight for it, before he gave in. Pretence was gone; and he was more lonely even than before. The one being who had seemed to turn to him naturally, avoided him now with horror, as one whose hands were stained with blood. Whatever hope might have been in his mind of escaping was gone; he no longer masqueraded in another man’s garments, and in another man’s place; he was battling for his life. “Every moment that I stay here makes the danger greater; that thing may be found, and they may be upon me, like bloodhounds, at any moment. I must clear myself; I must, if necessary, undo all that I have done, and declare who I really am. But, if I stop here, I shall be caught like a rat in a trap. I want time to think—time to plan out what I must do——What’s that?” Some one had knocked softly at the door. After a moment’s pause, Philip Chater, in a nervous voice, called out—“Come in!” A servant entered, bearing a letter. “I did not know you were in, sir,” he said. “This came while you were out.” Philip Chater—doubly suspicious now—looked at the man curiously as he took the letter. Was it possible that some one had watched his going out—had even seen Harry going in the direction of the wood first, carrying the spade for his awful work? The spade! It had been left behind, in that half-dug grave; there had been no time even to think of it. All these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, in the few seconds during which the man handed him the letter—bowed respectfully—and retired. Almost mechanically, he tore open the envelope, and unfolded the sheet within it. “DEAR SIR,