But it would cost you something; therefore it is absurd to imagine it possible.

When, three days hence, I make my last call at the General Post Office, and hear once more that there is nothing for me, not even a message of brotherly pity (which costs nothing), I shall know my last hope is gone.

And you, in the lap of luxury, counting your thousands, and monarch of all you survey, will be able to breathe again.

Either you will hear of my arrest, or, if my courage befriends me, you may read in an obscure corner of the paper of a wretch, hounded to death, who escaped his pursuers after all, and preferred to die by his own hand rather than that of his brother.

Good-bye till then.
"Your brother,-- "Roger Ingleton.
"_P.S_ .-- The Post Office know me, or my messenger, as `Richard Redfern.' No doubt you will show this letter to your tutor, who should have no difficulty in using the information I am obliged to give as to my whereabouts to run me down." The flush on Roger's face had died down into pallor by the time he reached the end of this savage yet dismal letter.