Adam Salton went for a walk before returning to Lesser¹ Hill; he felt that it might be well, not only to steady his nerves, shaken by the horrible scene, but to get his thoughts into some sort of order, so as to be ready to enter on the matter with Sir Nathaniel.  He was a little embarrassed as to telling his uncle, for affairs had so vastly progressed beyond his original view that he felt a little doubtful as to what would be the old gentleman’s attitude when he should hear of the strange events for the first time.  Mr. Salton would certainly not be satisfied at being treated as an outsider with regard to such things, most of which had points of contact with the inmates² of his own house.  It was with an immense sense of relief that Adam heard that his uncle had telegraphed to the housekeeper³ that he was detained by business at Walsall, where he would remain for the night; and that he would be back in the morning in time for lunch.  
When Adam got home after his walk, he found Sir Nathaniel just going to bed.  He did not say anything to him then of what had happened, but contented⁴ himself with arranging that they would walk together in the early morning, as he had much to say that would require serious attention.
 
Strangely enough he slept well, and awoke at dawn with his mind clear and his nerves in their usual unshaken condition.  The maid brought up, with his early morning cup of tea, a note which had been found in the letter-box.  It was from Lady Arabella, and was evidently intended to put him on his guard as to what he should say about the previous evening.
 
He read it over carefully several times, before he was satisfied that he had taken in its full import.
 
“DEAR MR. SALTON,
 
“I cannot go to bed until I have written to you, so you must forgive me if I disturb you, and at an unseemly time.  Indeed, you must also forgive me if, in trying to do what is right, I err⁶ in saying too much or too little.  The fact is that I am quite upset and unnerved by all that has happened in this terrible night.  I find it difficult even to write; my hands shake so that they are not under control, and I am trembling all over with memory of the horrors we saw enacted⁷ before our eyes.  I am grieved beyond measure that I should be, however remotely, a cause of this horror coming on you.  Forgive me if you can, and do not think too hardly of me.  This I ask with confidence, for since we shared together the danger—the very pangs—of death, I feel that we should be to one another something more than mere⁸ friends, that I may lean on you and trust you, assured that your sympathy and pity are for me.  You really must let me thank you for the friendliness⁹, the help, the confidence, the real aid at a time of deadly danger and deadly fear which you showed me.  That awful man—I shall see him for ever in my dreams.  His black, malignant¹⁰ face will shut out all memory of sunshine and happiness.  I shall eternally see his evil eyes as he threw himself into that well-hole in a vain effort to escape from the consequences of his own misdoing.  The more I think of it, the more apparent it seems to me that he had premeditated the whole thing—of course, except his own horrible death.
 
“Perhaps you have noticed a fur collar I occasionally wear.  It is one of my most valued treasures—an ermine collar studded with emeralds.  I had often seen the nigger’s eyes gleam covetously¹¹ when he looked at it.  Unhappily, I wore it yesterday.  That may have been the cause that lured¹² the poor man to his doom¹³.  On the very brink¹⁴ of the abyss he tore the collar from my neck—that was the last I saw of him.  When he sank into the hole, I was rushing to the iron door, which I pulled behind me.  When I heard that soul-sickening yell, which marked his disappearance¹⁵ in the chasm¹⁶, I was more glad than I can say that my eyes were spared the pain and horror which my ears had to endure.
 
“When I tore myself out of the negro’s grasp as he sank into the well-hole; I realised what freedom meant.  Freedom!  Freedom!  Not only from that noisome¹⁷ prison-house, which has now such a memory, but from the more noisome embrace of that hideous¹⁸ monster.  Whilst I live, I shall always thank you for my freedom.  A woman must sometimes express her gratitude¹⁹; otherwise it becomes too great to bear.  I am not a sentimental²⁰ girl, who merely likes to thank a man; I am a woman who knows all, of bad as well as good, that life can give.  I have known what it is to love and to lose.  But you must not let me bring any unhappiness into your life.  I must live on—as I have lived—alone, and, in addition, bear with other woes²¹ the memory of this latest insult and horror.  In the meantime, I must get away as quickly as possible from Diana’s Grove²².  In the morning I shall go up to town, where I shall remain for a week—I cannot stay longer, as business affairs demand my presence here.  I think, however, that a week in the rush of busy London, surrounded with multitudes of commonplace people, will help to soften—I cannot expect total obliteration—the terrible images of the bygone night.  When I can sleep easily—which will be, I hope, after a day or two—I shall be fit to return home and take up again the burden which will, I suppose, always be with me.
 
“I shall be most happy to see you on my return—or earlier, if my good fortune sends you on any errand to London.  I shall stay at the Mayfair Hotel.  In that busy spot we may forget some of the dangers and horrors we have shared together.  Adieu, and thank you, again and again, for all your kindness and consideration to me.
 
“ARABELLA MARSH

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