"Are you yourself sure that this letter is from Mr. Philip?"
"Not a doubt of it. I wish there were. Because it shows that he's in hiding; and what should he be in hiding for, except one thing? What—what are we to do? If—if he has his brother's blood upon his hands."
"Joe!"
"Well, Emma, if he has, he has! And where'll he find a place big enough, and out-of-the-way enough, for him to hide in? All the world will soon know what he's done, and all the world will be in search of him. He won't dare to come here—he daren't already; soon he won't dare to write to me; the police will be watching me like cats a mouse. He'll be an outcast, shunning the places which he knew and the friends who loved him—and he the most sociable gentleman who ever lived, who never could bear to be alone; with a host of friends, and not a single enemy. And—and what are we to do—the wife and I, here, in his house alone? To whom are we to look for help—for guidance—for orders? We—we're almost afraid to stop in the place as it is; it—it's as if it were haunted. We seem to see him wherever we turn; we hear his footstep on the stairs—his voice—his laughter."
"Joe!"
