want he'll come to me for. Thanks, all the same," and so saying he nodded jauntily to the little man and went on his way.
"Dash my vig, but 'e's a cool un," said Moses Plish to himself as he watched the tall, well-clad figure of the erstwhile adventurer disappear in the madding crowd. "Wonder if 'e knows that Cupples is in London too!"
But despite his outward nonchalance Kane was inwardly perturbed at this chance encounter. That Moses Plish was in London had probably no significance. Whatever he might suspect, he had no absolute knowledge of that dark and bloody episode on the veldt,—no one knew the truth save the two men implicated and since so strangely thrown together. And to only one of these was the whole truth known.
What was chiefly to be dreaded was that a new train of ideas might be set running in Dysart's mind. Kane feared lest a chance word should put him on the right scent, for even the dimmest suspicion would be disastrous now!
However, the two men got through their luncheon as per appointment, and the subsequent return journey was made without any noticeable strain or change in their relations. Nor was the evening spent at Denecroft any different from the many that had preceded it.
All was apparently serene. Both Sir Arthur and Richard were ideal hosts, and Stella's good-night kiss was as sweet and trustful as ever.
But the day's happenings served to kindle afresh Kane's uneasy forebodings, and intensified his distaste and horror at the part he was playing. The kindness and cordiality with which he was received at Denecroft made his own conduct, past and present, all the blacker by contrast.
That night the question occurred to him. What if Stella should discover the truth after they were married? She would scorn him with an unutterable scorn,—not for his crime,—he could fancy her forgiving that,—but for his deceit and his false pretences. That he had loved her and won her in ignorance of the identity of his victim would be no palliation of his after-offence in keeping it secret. With such a nature as hers, in which pride of birth was blended with an almost slavish worship of truth and honor, there could be but one outcome: She would spurn him from her sight!
Again: suppose Richard were to stumble on the truth, and tax him with his crime? What could he do but cower like a whipped cur?
Rossiter Kane was no common coward, but the mere thought of such a possibility caused him the keenest shrinking and chagrin.
Gradually, out of the turmoil of his thoughts, the conviction grew and took shape that his only hope of happiness lay in prompt confession
