Although Mr. O'Shea be not one of the most foreground figures in this piece, we are obliged to follow his fortunes for a brief space, and at a moment when our interests would more naturally call us in another direction. Thus, at a dinner-party, will it occasionally happen that our attention is engaged on one side, while our sympathies incline to the other; so, in life, the self-same incident continues to occur. We have said that he had many a sore misgiving about the enterprise he was engaged in. He felt that he was walking completely in the dark, and towards what he knew not. Mrs. Morris was, doubtless, a clever pilot, but she might mistake the course, she might go wrong in her soundings, and, lastly, she might chance to be on the shore when the ship was scuttled. These were dire mistrusts, not to say very ungallant suspicions, to haunt the heart and the head of a bridegroom; but—alas! that we must own it—Mr. O'Shea now occupied that equatorial position in life equally distant from the zones of youth and age, where men are most worldly, and disposed to take the most practical views of whatever touches their interests. It was very hard for him to believe that a woman of such consummate cleverness as the widow had ever written a line that could compromise her. He took a man's view of the question, and fancied that a cool head is always cool, and a calculating heart always alive to its arithmetic. These letters, therefore, most probably referred to money transactions; they were, in fact, either bills, or securities, or promises to pay, under circumstances, possibly, not the pleasantest to make public. In such affairs he had always deemed a compromise the best course; why had she not given him a clearer insight into his mission? In fact, he was sailing with sealed orders, to be opened only on reaching a certain latitude. “At all events, I can do nothing till she writes to me;” and with this grain of comfort he solaced himself as he went along his road, trying to feel at ease, and doing his utmost to persuade himself that he was a lucky fellow, and “on the best thing” that had ever turned up in his life.

It is unpleasant for us to make the confession, but in his heart of hearts Mr. O'Shea thought of a mode of guiding himself through his difficulties, which assuredly was little in keeping with the ardor of a devoted lover. The ex-Member for Inch was a disciple of that sect—not a very narrow one—which firmly believes that men have a sort of masonic understanding amongst them always to be true to each other against a woman, and that out of a tacit compact of mutual protection they will always stand by each other against the common enemy. If, therefore, he could make Paten's acquaintance, be intimate with him, and on terms of confidence, he might learn all the bearings of this case, and very probably get no inconsiderable insight into the fair widow's life and belongings.

Amidst a vast conflict of such thoughts as these he rolled along over the SplÜgen Alps, down the Via Mala, and arrived at last at Baden. The season was at its full flood. There were a brace of kings there, and a whole covey of Serene Highnesses, not to speak of flocks of fashionables from every land of Europe. There was plenty of gossip,—the gossip of politics, of play, of private scandal. The well-dressed world was amusing itself at the top of its bent, and every one speaking ill of his neighbor to his own heart's content. Whatever, however, may be the grand event of Europe,—the outbreak of a war, or a revolution, the dethronement of a king, or the murder of an emperor,—at such places as these the smallest incident of local origin will far out-top it in interest; and so, although the world at this moment had a very fair share of momentous questions at issue, Baden had only tongues and ears for one, and that was the lucky dog that went on breaking the bank at rouge-et-noir about twice a week.

Ludlow Paten was the man of the day. Now it was his equipage, his horses; now it was the company he entertained at dinner yesterday, the fabulous sum he had given for a diamond ring, the incredible offer he had made for a ducal palace on the Rhine. Around these and such-like narratives there floated a sort of atmosphere of an imaginative order: how he had made an immense wager to win a certain sum by a certain day, and now only wanted some trifle of ten or twelve thousand pounds to complete it; how, if he continued to break the bank so many times more, M. Bennasset, the proprietor, was to give him fifty thousand francs a year for life to buy him off, with twenty other variations on these themes as to the future application of the money, some averring it was to ransom his wife from the Moors, and others, as positively, to pay off a sum with which he had absconded in his youth from a great banking-house in London; and, last of all, a select few had revived the old diabolic contract on his behalf, and were firm in declaring that after he retired to his room at night he was heard for hours counting over his gains, and disputing with the Evil One, who always came for his share of the booty, and rigidly insisted on having it in gold. Now, it was strange enough that these last, however wild the superstructure of their belief, had really a small circumstance in their favor, which was that Paten had been met with three or four times in most unfrequented places, walking with a man of very wretched appearance and most forbidding aspect, who covered his face when looked at, and was only to be caught sight of by stealth. The familiar, as he was now called, had been seen by so many that all doubt as to his existence was quite removed.

These were the stories which met O'Shea on his arrival, and which formed the table-talk of the hotel he dined in; narratives, of course, graced with all the illustrative powers of those who told them. One fact, however, impressed itself strongly on his mind,—that with a man so overwhelmed by the favors of Fortune, any chance of forming acquaintance casually was out of the question. If he were cleaned out of his last Napoleon, one could know him readily enough; but to the fellow who can break the bank at will, archdukes and princes are the only intimates. His first care was to learn his appearance. Nor had he long to wait; the vacant chair beside the croupier marked the place reserved for the great player, whose game alone occupied the attention of the bystanders, and whose gains and losses were all marked and recorded by an expectant public. “Here he comes! That is he, leaning on the Prince of Tours, the man with the large beard!” whispered a person in O'Shea's hearing; and now a full, large man, over-weighty, as it seemed, for his years, pushed the crowd carelessly aside, and seated himself at the table. The low murmur that went round showed that the great event of the evening was about to “come off,” and that the terrible conflict of Luck against Luck was now to be fought out.

More intent upon regarding the man himself than caring to observe his game, O'Shea stationed himself in a position to watch his features, scan their whole expression, and mark every varying change impressed upon them. His experience of the world had made him a tolerable physiognomist, and he read the man before him reasonably well. “He is not a clever fellow,” thought he, “he is only a resolute one; and, even as such, not persistent. Still, he will be very hard to deal with; he distrusts every man.” Just as O'Shea was thus summing up to himself, an exclamation from the crowd startled him. The stranger had lost an immense “coup;” the accumulation of five successful passes had been swept away at once, and several minutes were occupied in counting the enormous pile of Napoleons he had pushed across the table.

The player sat apparently unmoved; his face, so far as beard and moustache permitted it to be seen, was calm and impassive; but O'Shea remarked a fidgety uneasiness in his hands, and a fevered impatience in the way he continued to draw off and on a ring which he wore on his finger. The game began again, but he did not bet; and murmuring comments around the room went on, some averring that he was a bad loser, who never had nerve for his reverses, and others as stoutly maintaining that he was such a consummate master of himself that he was never carried away by impulse, but, seeing fortune unfavorable, had firmness enough to endure his present defeat, and wait for a better moment. Gradually the interest of the bystanders took some other direction, and Paten was unobserved, as he sat, to all seeming, inattentive to everything that went on before him. Suddenly, however, he placed twenty thousand francs in notes upon the table, and said, “Red.” The “Black” won; and he pushed back his chair, arose, and strolled carelessly into another room.

O'Shea followed him; he saw him chatting away pleasantly with some of his most illustrious friends, laughingly telling how unfortunate he had been, and in sportive vein declaring that, from the very fact of her sex, a man should not trust too much to Fortune. “I 'll go and play dominoes with the Archduchess of Lindau,” said he, laughing; “it will be a cheap pleasure even if I lose.” And he moved off towards a smaller salon, where the more exclusive of the guests were accustomed to assemble.

Not caring to attract attention by appearing in a company where he was not known to any, O'Shea sauntered out into the garden, and, tempted by the fresh night air, sat down. Chilled after a while, he resolved to take a brisk walk before bed-time, and set out in the avenue which leads to Lichtenthal. He had plenty to think of, and the time favored reflection. On and on he went at a smart pace, the activity of mind suggesting activity of body, and, before he knew it, had strolled some miles from Baden, and found himself on the rise of the steep ascent that leads to Eberstein. He was roused, indeed, from his musings by the passage of a one-horse carriage quite close to him, and which, having gained a piece of level ground, drew up. The door was quickly opened, and a man got out; the moonlight was full upon his figure, and O'Shea saw it was Paten. He looked around for a second or two, and then entered the wood. O'Shea determined to explore the meaning of the mystery, and, crossing the low edge, at once followed him. Guided by the light of the cigar which Paten was smoking, O'Shea tracked him till he perceived him to come to a halt, and immediately after heard the sound of voices. The tone was angry and imperious on both sides, and, in intense eagerness, O'Shea drew nigher and nigher.

“None of your nonsense with me,” said a firm and resolute voice. “I know well how much you believe of such trumpery.”

“I tell you again that I do believe it. As certain as I give you money, so certain am I to lose. Thursday week I gave you five Naps; I lost that same night seventy thousand francs; on Wednesday last the same thing; and to-night two thousand Napoleons are gone. You swore to me, besides, so late as yesterday, that if I gave you twenty Louis, you 'd leave Baden, to go back to England.”

“So I would, but I 've lost it. I went in at roulette, and came out without sixpence; and I'm sure it was not lending brought bad luck upon me.” added he, with a bitter laugh.

“Then may I be cursed in all I do, if I give you another fraction! You think to terrify me by exposure; but who 'll stand that test best,—the man who can draw on his banker for five thousand pounds, or the outcast who can't pay for his dinner? Let the world know the worst of me, and say the worst of me, I can live without it, and you may die on a dunghill.”

“Well, I 'm glad we 're come to this at last. Baden shall know to-morrow morning the whole story, and you will see how many will sit down at the same table with you. You 're a fool—you always were a fool—to insult a man as reckless as I am. What have I to lose? They can't try me over again any more than you. But you can be shunned and cut by your fine acquaintances, turned out of clubs, disowned on every hand—”

“Look here, Collier,” broke in Paten; “I have heard all that rubbish fifty times from you, but it does n't terrify me. The man that can live as I do need never want friends or acquaintances; the starving beggar it is who has no companionship. Let us start fair to-morrow, as you threaten, and at the end of the week let us square accounts, and see who has the best of it.”

“I 'll go into the rooms when they are most crowded, and I 'll say, 'The man yonder, who calls himself Ludlow Paten, is Paul Hunt, the accomplice of Towers, that was hanged for the murder of Godfrey Hawke, at Jersey. My name is Collier; I never changed it. I, too, was in the dock on that day. Here we stand,—he in fine clothes, and I in rags, but not so very remote as externals bespeak us.'”

“In two hours after I 'd have you sent over the frontier with a gendarme, as a vagabond, and without means of support, and I 'd be travelling post to Italy.”

“To see the widow, I hope; to persecute the wretched woman who once in her life thought you were not a scoundrel.”

“Ay, and marry her, too, my respected friend, if the intelligence can give you pleasure to hear it. I 'm sorry we can't ask you to the wedding.”

“No, that you 'll not; she knows you, and while you cheated every one of us, she discovered you to be the mean fellow you are,—ready, as she said, to have a share in every enterprise, provided you were always spared the peril. Do you recognize the portrait there, Paul Hunt, and can you guess the painter?”

“If she ever made the speech, she 'll live to rue it.”

“Not a bit of it, man. That woman is your master. You did your very best to terrify her, but you never succeeded. She dares you openly; and if I have to make the journey on foot, I 'll seek her out in Italy, and say, 'Here is one who has the same hate in his heart that you have, and has less hold on life; help him to our common object.' It's not a cool head will be wanting in such a moment; so, look out ahead, Master Paul.”

“You hint at a game that two can play at.”

“Ay, but you 're not one of them. You were always a coward.”

A savage oath, and something like the noise of a struggle, followed. Neither spoke; but now O'Shea could distinctly mark, by the crashing of the brushwood, that they had either both fallen to the ground, or that one had got the other under. Before he could resolve what course to take, the sharp report of a pistol rung out, the hasty rustle of a man forcing through the trees followed, and then all was still. It was not till after some minutes that he determined to go forward. A few steps brought him to the place, where in a little alley of the wood lay a man upon his face. He felt his wrist, and then, turning him on his back, laid his hand on the heart. All was still; he was warm, as if in life, but life had fled forever! A faint streak of moonlight had now just fallen upon the spot, and he saw it was Ludlow Paten who lay there. The ball had entered his left side, and probably pierced the heart, so instantaneous had been his death. While O'Shea was thus engaged in tracing the fatal wound, a heavy pocket-book fell from the breast-pocket. He opened it; its contents were a packet of letters, tied with a string; he could but see that they bore the address of Paul Hunt, but he divined the rest. They were hers. The great prize, for which he himself was ready to risk life, was now his own; and he hastened away from the place, and turned with all speed towards Baden.

It was not yet daybreak when he got back, and, gaining his room, locked the door. He knew not why he did so, but in the fear and turmoil of his mind he dreaded the possibility of seeing or being seen. He feared, besides, lest some chance word might escape him, some vague phrase might betray him as the witness of a scene he resolved never to disclose. Sometimes, indeed, as he sat there, he would doubt the whole incident, and question whether it had not been the phantasm of an excited brain; but there before him on the table lay the letters; there they were, the terrible evidences of the late crime, and perhaps the proofs of guilt in another too!

This latter thought nearly drove him distracted. There before him lay what secured to him the prize he sought for, and yet what, for aught he knew, might contain what would render that object a shame and a disgrace. It lay with himself to know this. Once in her possession, he, of course, could never know the contents, or if by chance discovery came, it might come too late. He reasoned long and anxiously with himself; he tried to satisfy his mind that there were cases in which self-preservation absolved a man from what in less critical emergencies had been ignominious to do. He asked himself, “Would not a man willingly burn the documents whose production would bring him to disgrace and ruin? and, by the same rule, would not one eagerly explore those which might save him from an irreparable false step? At all events,” thought he, “Fortune has thrown the chance in my way, and so—” He read them.