The events of the day had made Pratt cautious as well as anxious. He
decided to keep away from his lodgings that night, and when he reached
the centre of the town he took a room at a quiet hotel. He was up early
next morning; he had breakfasted by eight o'clock; by half-past eight he
was at his office. And in his letter-box he found one letter--a thickish
package which had not come by post, but had been dropped in by hand, and
was merely addressed to Mr. Pratt.
Pratt tore that package open with a conviction of imminent disaster. He
pulled out a sheet of cheap note-paper--and a wad of bank-notes. His
face worked curiously as he read a few lines, scrawled in illiterate,
female handwriting.
"MR PRATT,--My husband and me don't want any more to do with
either you or your money which it is enclosed. Been honest up to
now though poor, and intending to remain so our purpose is to
make a clean breast of everything to the police first thing
tomorrow morning for which you have nobody but yourself to blame
for wickedness in tempting poor people to do wrong.
"Yours, MRS. MURGATROYD."
CHAPTER XXV
DRY SHERRY
Pratt wasted no time in cursing Mrs. Murgatroyd. There would be plenty
of opportunity for such relief to his feelings later on. Just then he
had other matters to occupy him--fully.
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