CHAPTER LII.
"HAWORTH'S IS DONE WITH."
Almost at the same moment, Haworth was reading, in his room at the Works, the letter which had been left for himself.
"I have borne as much as I can bear," it ended. "My punishment for my folly is that I am a ruined man and a fugitive. My presence upon the scene, when the climax comes, would be of no benefit to either of us. Pardon me, if you can, for the wrong I have unintentionally done you. My ill-luck was sheerly the result of circumstances. Even yet, I cannot help thinking that there were great possibilities in my plans. But you will not believe this and I will say no more.
In haste,
Ffrench."
When Rachel Ffrench finished reading her note she lighted a taper and held the paper to it until it was reduced to ashes, and afterward turned away merely a shade paler and colder than before. Haworth having finished the reading of Ffrench's letter, sat for a few seconds staring down at it as it lay before him on the table. Then he burst into a brutal laugh.
After that, he sat stupefied—his elbows on the table, his head on his hands. He did not move for half an hour.
