The door opened as he put the question.  Bateson—­appointed to chop Frank’s bed-place into firing—­appeared punctually with his ax.  Wardour, without a word of warning, snatched the ax out of the man’s hand.

“What was this wanted for?” he asked.

“To cut up Mr. Aldersley’s berth there into firing, sir.”

“I’ll do it for you!  I’ll have it down in no time!” He turned to Crayford.  “You needn’t be afraid about me, old friend.  I am going to do the right thing.  I am going to tire my body and rest my mind.”

The evil spirit in him was plainly subdued—­for the time, at least.  Crayford took his hand in silence; and then (followed by Bateson) left him to his work.

Chapter 10.

Ax in hand, Wardour approached Frank’s bed-place.

“If I could only cut the thoughts out of me,” he said to himself, “as I am going to cut the billets out of this wood!” He attacked the bed-place with the ax, like a man who well knew the use of his instrument.  “Oh me!” he thought, sadly, “if I had only been born a carpenter instead of a gentleman!  A good ax, Master Bateson—­I wonder where you got it?  Something like a grip, my man, on this handle.  Poor Crayford! his words stick in my throat.  A fine fellow! a noble fellow!  No use thinking, no use regretting; what is said, is said.  Work! work! work!”

Plank after plank fell out on the floor.  He laughed over the easy task of destruction.  “Aha! young Aldersley!  It doesn’t take much to demolish your bed-place.  I’ll have it down!  I would have the whole hut down, if they would only give me the chance of chopping at it!”

A long strip of wood fell to his ax—­long enough to require cutting in two.  He turned it, and stooped over it.  Something caught his eye—­letters carved in the wood.  He looked closer.  The letters were very faintly and badly cut.  He could only make out the first three of them; and even of those he was not quite certain.  They looked like C L A—­if they looked like anything.  He threw down the strip of wood irritably.

“D—­n the fellow (whoever he is) who cut this!  Why should he carve that name, of all the names in the world?”

He paused, considering—­then determined to go on again with his self-imposed labor.  He was ashamed of his own outburst.  He looked eagerly for the ax.  “Work, work!  Nothing for it but work.”  He found the ax, and went on again.

He cut out another plank.

He stopped, and looked at it suspiciously.

There was carving again, on this plank.  The letters F. and A. appeared on it.

He put down the ax.  There were vague misgivings in him which he was not able to realize.  The state of his own mind was fast becoming a puzzle to him.

“More carving,” he said to himself.  “That’s the way these young idlers employ their long hours.  F. A.?  Those must be his initials—­Frank Aldersley.  Who carved the letters on the other plank?  Frank Aldersley, too?”