Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 5).djvu/505

Verschoyle must be induced to set to work, and in the meantime it must be so contrived that the mother and daughter should be better cared for. "Tell him that I have taken a great fancy to this old place; and, between ourselves, give him a few thousands for it, perhaps—to be settled on them—yes, certainly settled on them."

Once in his own room, Verschoyle sank into a seat and buried his face in his hands. "If there were but any other way than this! If only the man had not gone there bragging about his thousands!" trying to persuade himself that there had been bragging, and almost hating Meredith for the wrong he was about to do him. "He would not do it! Let the worst come to the worst—he would not!" springing to his feet again, and fiercely shaking his fist as against some unseen tempter.

The clock in a distant church tower chimed twelve. One vibrated on the night air; it would soon be too late! Morning would dawn, and the opportunity be gone! Shivering with the remembrance of what the morning might bring—ruin, disgrace, his whole life blighted—he once more decided there must be no drawing back. With set teeth and determined eyes he went towards a chair upon which lay a folded garment. He shook it out—a long, dark, military cloak—and proceeded, in awkward but tolerably efficient fashion, to pin the cape so as to, as nearly as possible, resemble a monk's hood. Changing his boots for slippers, he enveloped himself in the cloak, drawing the hood well forward so as to cover nearly the whole of his face; then softly opened the room door, and stood listening with bated breath.

No sound broke the stillness. He stole noiselessly forth, and entered a small room, the door of which was ajar, as he himself had placed it a couple of hours previously. This room opened into the larger one in which was Allan Meredith. Laurence stole silently to the communicating door, locked, and with the key outside. It had been well oiled; but this notwithstanding, there was a slight sound, like thunder to his guilty ears, as he turned the key in the lock.

He waited breathlessly for a few moments again, then, hearing no sound from within, softly pushed open the door and looked in. His eyes were, at once, directed towards the bed. Yes, Meredith was, apparently, fast asleep. To make quite sure, he stood silent and motionless, listening intently. The quiet, even breathing of one in deep slumber reached him. He moved softly towards the dressing-table, his eyes still turned upon the bed; then stood motionless again, a tall black figure in the semi-darkness.

"His hand closed over it."

Why did he hesitate? What was it that suddenly impelled him to tell the truth, and cast himself upon the mercy of the man lying there—his good angel battling for him? The scales trembled in the balance for a moment, and then it was as though he had chosen—"Evil, be thou my good"; and the way was, at once, made easy for him.