Bendigo nodded.

"I reckoned you'd want that," he answered and produced a second
letter from his desk.

It related to Robert Redmayne's engagement to be married and the
writing was identical.

"And what do you think he's done, Mr. Redmayne?" Brendon asked,
pocketing the two communications.

"I think he's done what he hoped to do. At this time of year you'll
see a dozen Spanish and Brittany onion boats lying down by the
Barbican at Plymouth, every day of the week. And if poor Bob got
there, no doubt plenty of chaps would hide him when he offered 'em
money enough to make it worth while. Once aboard one of those
sloops, he'd be about as safe as he would be anywhere. They'd land
him at St. Malo, or somewhere down there, and he'd give you the
slip."

"And, until it was found out that he was mad, we might hear no more
about him."

"Why should it be found that he was mad?" asked Bendigo. "He was
mad when he killed this innocent man, no doubt, because none but a
lunatic would have done such an awful thing, or been so cunning
after--with the sort of childish cunning that gave him away from
the start. But once he'd done what this twist in his brain drove
him to do, then I judge that his madness very likely left him. If
you caught him to-morrow, you'd possibly find him as sane as