It was one o’clock in the morning when Egerton and Marston reached Heckett’s house.

During the journey neither had spoken. Each was busy with his own thoughts.

Gurth knocked a certain number of times, and Heckett, lying tossing on the little bed in the back room, knew who was there, for he did not have his door opened at all hours to every one.

Lately Egerton had been a constant visitor, for Heckett—too ill now to move—had confided his schemes to him, and entrusted him with the disposal of his secrets, and his effects when he should be dead.

Heckett was very ill to-night, and Bess was still sitting up with him. She had been out on business, and had not come back till late.

George had watched by the old man all day, and had gone to bed tired out.

‘It’s Egerton,’ said the old dog-fancier, lifting his quick ears from the pillow; ‘that’s his knock. What’s in the wind now?

‘Go and let him in, missus—there’s a dear!’

Boss went to the door and started back. There were two men outside.

‘It’s all right,’ said Egerton. ‘This is a friend. Come in.’

Gurth led the way iuto Heckett’s room, and Marston followed him.

Bess, fancying she should be de trop, went on upstairs to the little room which she and her husband occupied, and where he had been unsuspected and secure ever since that eventful night in Hyde Park.

Their troubles were soon to be over now, and they were patient, for George had, through Heckett, acquired, sufficient evidence to prove how the whole scheme was concocted.

Heckett, who knew how near his end was, had agreed to eon-fess everything, and to leave the proof of what he stated with George, so that he might use them. He had ascertained through the police that an accomplice giving evidence which would secure the capture of the gold robbers would be pardoned, and on the morrow justice was to have the whole plot laid in her hands.

‘To-morrow,’ said George, as Bess came into the room. ‘Tomorrow is here, Bess, already. In twelve hours the first step will have been taken to prove my innocence and take this horrible shame from my name. Once free from this odious stigma, I can work, my darling, and make a home for you, where, with God’s help, we shall be happier than had we had the lands and the fortune my poor father willed away to the stranger—to come into the hands of the very man who was the ruin of his son. But to-morrow we shall strike the first blow for freedom. Nay, today. What time is it?’

‘Past one,’ answered Bess; ‘and there’s Mr. Egerton come with a strange gentleman to see Heckett.’

‘It’s about this business, I expect,’ answered George. ‘Heigho! I’m tired. Let’s go to sleep, and wake to find the new day dawned—the day that is to do so much for us.’

While the escaped eonvict was conversing so hopefully above, the astonished Heckett found Marston by his side below.

Weak as he was, he rapped out an oath as he saw his would-be assassin enter the room.

It was a stormy interview at first, but gradually Heckett calmed down. In his confidence he had told Egerton everything, and now Egerton urged him to accept Marston’s proposition, and hold his peace. What good would Heckett do himself? He would have his revenge, that was true—but what use was revenge to a dying man?

Heckett listened calmly at last, and when Egerton had finished and Marston had added his argument, letting Heckett see pretty plainly that he could not injure him without injuring Egerton also, and dropping something more than a hint that the old story of Ralph Egerton’s death in Heckett’s gambling-house might have to be gone into too, if he were foreed into a corner—when all this had been said, Heckett closed his eyes, and lay back on his pillow thinking.

‘I can’t promise,’ he said. ‘There’s others besides myself as ‘as got accounts to reckon with you. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a week—a dear week—to put daylight between yourself and the tecs.’

‘I’ll accept that offer,’ said Marston, quietly.

He saw there was nothing better to be got from Heckett that night. In a week much might be done. In the mean time he knew he should hold Egerton safe. Delay was all he wanted now. Given a week, he might yet surmount every obstacle.

He rose from the chair by Heckett’s side, and prepared to go.

As he did so Heckett beckoned to him.

‘There’s one thing you can do for me,’ he said. ‘I believe as you know what’s become o’ my gal. I ain’t got long to be here now, and I’d like to see my poor Gertie’s gal afore I go. There’s some things o’ her poor mother’s as I’ve kept for many a year as I’d like her to have. If you know where she’s been all these years, maybe you’ll tell her her old grandfather’s dyin’, and he’d die easier if he could see her again, and ask her to forgive him.’

‘You shall see Gertie if I can find her,’ said Marston eagerly.

A new idea had come to him. Gertie might induce the old man to hold his peace for ever. He had almost forgotten that Ruth’s protÉgÉe was Heckett’s child.

Gurth and Marston bade the old man ‘Good-night,’ and went out into the deserted street.

‘He’s sinking fast,’ said Gurth. ‘Birnie saw him the other day, and says he can’t live a month. Now I’ve kept my promise—keep yours.’

They had walked to the corner of the street.

‘Oh—ah—yes,’ answered Marston, quietly; ‘that confession. I promised it to you when you had silenced Heckett You have only silenced him for a week, and he will live a month. But, my dear fellow, I always like to treat an old friend well. See here——’

He pulled the newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to Gurth.

‘There you are, you see—there is your confession. The original is in the hands of the police. You’re fond of trips to America—I should try another at once if I were you. Good-bye.’

Marston turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away, leaving Gurth Egerton glued to the spot with horror. He read and reread the paragraph by the flickering light of the lamp. At any moment he might be arrested. The clue had been found by Marston. Why should it not be found by others? and then—He dared not think of it. He felt a choking sensation at his throat.

He would go back home at once and see Birnie, confide all to him, and take his advice. Birnie was the only friend he had in the world. He would go away again. There was nothing else for it. It seemed as though his wandering feet were to find no rest in this world. He was to be pursued everywhere by the shadow of the rash crime committed in his youth, and buried, as he fondly hoped, for ever.

And now the sea had borne witness against him. How had the confession he had made to the clergyman in the hour of imminent death been so miraculously preserved?

He could not think.

He only knew that a voice had cried out against him from the far-off seas, and that at the present moment his confession of the murder of his cousin was in the hands of the police.