Rapidly as carriage after carriage rolls up the broad approach to Tubbermore, the lamps flashing and glittering through the dark wood, we must beg of our reader to turn back a few hours in our history, and follow the steps of Mr. Linton, as, leaving the cottage, he turned towards the “great house.”

Probably, to a mind constituted like his there could be no more poignant sense of sorrow and regret than that experienced in consequence of a sudden and irrepressible burst of passion. It was a great fault,—the greatest he could commit. In justice to him, we will own it was of the very rarest in occurrence. His outbreaks of anger, like his moments of calm, were all studied beforehand; and nothing short of a catastrophe, unexpected and overwhelming, could have surprised him into the fatal excess of which his interview with Corrigan was an instance.

If repentance could have compensated for his sin, assuredly the offence might have been effaced from the tablet of his misdeeds. Never was sorrow more true, heartfelt, and cutting. He called none of his accustomed casuistry to aid him in softening down his fault; he saw it in all the breadth of its enormity, as a foul blot upon that system of deceit in which years of practice had made him so perfect. He felt compromised by himself; and possibly, to a cunning man, this is the bitterest of all self-reproaches.

Very little consideration was needed to show that, so far as Corrigan went, reconciliation was impossible. He knew the old man too well to have a doubt upon that subject.

What, then, was to be done? In which was the most profitable channel to turn the stream of coming events? Were Cashel a man of different mould, there would be no price too high to pay for that document which stood between him and his title to the estate. It was all the difference between rank and obscurity—between wealth and want—between the condition of an estated gentleman and the assumption of a mere pretender. Wide as the alternatives lay, Linton knew they would not affect Cashel's mind. He foresaw clearly that, in a burst of his “most virtuous probity,” he would declare Corrigan the rightful owner of the estate, and walk forth into the world as poor as when he began it. With Cashel, therefore, all treaty would be impossible. The next consideration was, what terms might be made with Corrigan through Tiernay. The rough frankness of the old doctor had always been reckoned by Linton as a commonplace trick of certain coarse minds, to simulate honesty and straightforwardness. He believed that mankind consisted of but two categories,—the knave and the fool: he who was not one must necessarily be the other. Now, an acute study of Tiernay persuaded him that he was a shrewd, sound-headed man, whose very profession had trained him into habits of investigation; and thought there could be little doubt, therefore, into which class be fell. There was, moreover, this advantage in treating with him, that neither personal feeling nor pride of station would interfere with the negotiation; he would entertain the question in the simple light of a bargain,—so much for so much. The unlucky release of all claim upon their property was, of course, to be thought of—as deteriorating, if not altogether invalidating, the title; but of this it might be possible, perhaps, to obtain possession. Cashel's papers must be ransacked throughout; it was very unlikely that he had taken an unusual care of it, so that Linton was far from supposing that this would present a serious difficulty. But why had he not thought of this before? Why had he suffered his disappointment to blind him to what was so palpable? “So much for thinking the game won ere it is finished,” exclaimed he; “but who would have thought Linton should make this blunder?”

To treat with Tiernay, then, realized every advantage he could think of. It offered the prospect of better terms, an easier negotiation; and it presented one feature of inestimable merit in his eyes,—it afforded the means of gratifying his hatred against Cashel, without the vengeance costing him anything. This thought, for a while, left him incapable of entertaining every other. Cashel reduced to poverty—humiliated to the position of an adventurer who had obtained a property under false pretences—was a picture he could never weary of contemplating. What a glorious consummation of revenge, could he have involved one other in the ruin!—if Laura had been the companion of his fall! But that scheme had failed; a friendship—a perilous one, 't is true—had sprung up where Linton had sowed the seeds of a very different passion; and nothing remained but to involve them both in the disgrace and ruin which a separation and its consequences could inflict. “Even this,” thought be, “will now be no trifling penalty,—the 'millionnaire' Roland Cashel would have conferred an Éclat on the fall, that would become ludicrous when associated with the name of a mere adventurer.”

If thoughts of these vengeances afforded the most intense pleasure to his vindictive mind, there came, ever and anon, deep regrets at the loss of that greater game for which he had planned and plotted so anxiously. That noble fortune which he had almost held within his grasp; that high station from which he would have known how to derive all its advantages; the political position he had so long ambitioned,—were now all to flit from before his eyes like the forms of a dream, unreal and impossible.

So intently had he pursued these various reasonings, that he utterly forgot everything of his late interview with Tom Keane; and when the remembrance did flash upon him, the effect was almost stunning. The crime would now be useless, so far as regarded Linton's own advantage. Mary Leicester could never be his wife; why, then, involve himself, however remotely, in a deed as profitless as it was perilous? No time should be lost about this. He must see Keane immediately, and dissuade him from the attempt. It would be easy to assure him that the whole was a misconception,—a mistake of meaning. It was not necessary to convince, it was enough to avert the act; but this must be done at once.

So reflecting, Linton took his way to the gate-lodge, which lay a considerable distance off. The space afforded much time for thought, and he was one whose thoughts travelled fast. His plans were all matured and easy of accomplishment. After seeing Keane, he would address a few lines to Tiernay, requesting an interview on the following morning. That night, he resolved, should be his last at Tubbermore; the masquerade had, as may be conjectured, few charms for one whose mind was charged with heavier cares, but still it would give him an occasion to whisper about his scandal on Lady Kilgoff, and, later on, give him the opportunity of searching Cashel's papers for that document he wished to obtain.

On reaching the gate-lodge, under pretence of lighting his cigar he entered the house, where, in all the squalid misery of their un tractable habits, Keane's wife sat, surrounded by her ragged children.

“Tom is at work, I suppose?” said he, carelessly.

“No, yer honer; he went out early this morning to look after a little place for us, as the master is goin' to turn us out.”

“I 'm sorry for that,” said he, compassionately; “land is dear, and hard to be got now-a-days. Why don't he go to America?”

“Indeed an' I don't know, sir. They say it's the asy place to gain a livin'; fine pay, and little to do for it.”

Linton smiled at an encomium for whose accuracy he would not have vouched, and then tried to ascertain, in the same careless fashion, in what direction Keane had gone; but the woman could not tell. She believed it was by the high road, but could not be certain, since he had left the house shortly after daybreak.

Linton sauntered out in deep thought. It was evident enough to him what the object of that journey was; it needed no clew to track his path. It was strange; but now, when the deed was not to secure any future benefits to himself, it appeared before his eyes in all the glaring colors of its criminality. It was a cold-blooded and useless crime, and he actually shuddered as he thought upon it.

Although he well knew that it would not be possible to connect him in any way with the act, his conscience made him restless and uneasy, and he would have given much that he had never mooted it. It was too late, however, now, to think of these things; were he to mount his horse and follow the fellow Keane, the chances of coming up with him were few. The man would inevitably have concealed himself till the very moment came; and were Linton to be present at such a time, the fact of his presence might, in such a remote and unfrequented spot, give rise to the very worst suspicions. “Be it so,” said he, at length, and with the tone of one who left the issue to fortune. He found himself now upon the high road, and remembering that he was not far from Tiernay's house, resolved on making a visit to the doctor in person. It might so happen hereafter that a question would arise where he had passed the morning. There was no saying what turn events might take, and it would be as well were he able to show that he had spent some time in Tiernay's company; and as, in such a critical moment, it would have been far from wise to discuss any matter connected with Cashel's property, it were safest to make the object of the visit appear an effort to obtain Dr. Tiernay's kind mediation in the difference with Mr. Corrigan.

To pass half an hour in his company, under any pretext, would be to put on record his occupation on that morning; and with this resolve, he knocked at the door.

It was with a start of surprise Tiernay received Linton as he entered his study. The doctor arose from the chair where he had been sitting, and stood in the attitude of one who desires by his very air and deportment to express that he does not mean that the other should be seated.

“This is an honor, sir,” said he, at last, “so undeserved on my part, that I am at a loss how to acknowledge it.”

“A little patience and a little courtesy are all I ask for, Dr. Tiernay,” replied Linton, while he placed a chair and seated himself with the most perfect unconcern. “You may easily guess that I do not intrude my presence upon you without what at least seem to me to be sufficient reasons. Whether you may think them so or not, will in a great measure depend upon whether you prefer to be guided by the false lights of an unjust prejudice, or the true illumination of your own natural good sense and practical intelligence.”

Tiernay sat down without speaking; the appeal was made calmly and dispassionately to him, and he felt that he could not but entertain it, particularly as the scene was beneath his own roof.

Linton resumed,—

“Your friend,—I hope the time is not far distant when I may be enabled to say and mine,—Mr. Corrigan, acting under the greatest of all misconceptions, mistaking my heartfelt zeal in his behalf for an undue interference in his affairs, has to-day expressed himself towards me in a manner so uncalled for, so unfair, and ungenerous, that, considering the position I sought to occupy in his regard, either bespeaks the existence of some secret attack upon my character, or that a mere sudden caprice of temper overbalances with him the qualities he has been gracious enough to speak of in terms of praise and approbation.”

Tiernay gave a short, dry nod, whose significance was so very doubtful that Linton stopped and stared at him, as if asking for further information.

“I had made a proposition for the hand of his granddaughter,” resumed he, “and surely my pretensions could not subject me to rebuke?”

Tiernay nodded again, in the same puzzling way as before.

“Knowing the influence you possess in the family,” resumed Linton, “seeing how much confidence they repose in your counsels, I have thought it advisable to state to you that, although naturally indignant at the treatment I have met with, and possibly carried away for a moment by passion, my feelings regarding Miss Leicester are unchanged, and, I believe, unchangeable.”

Tiernay moved his head slightly, as though implying assent.

“Am I to understand, sir, that my communication is pleasing to you?” said Linton, firmly.

“Very pleasing in every respect,” said Tiernay.

“And I may reckon upon your kind offices in my behalf, Dr. Tiernay?”

Tiernay shook his head negatively.

“Be kind enough to speak your mind more intelligibly, sir, for there is need that we should understand each other here.”

“I will be as explicit as you can desire, sir. Your communication was gratifying to me in so far that it showed me how my old and esteemed friend, Mr. Corrigan, had thrown off the delusion in which he had indulged regarding you, and saw you as I have always thought you,—a clever worldly man, without scruples as to his means when an object had once gained possession of his wishes, and who never could have dreamed of making Miss Leicester his wife were there not other and deeper purposes to be attained by so doing.”

“You are candor itself, sir,” said Linton; “but I cannot feel offence at a frankness I have myself asked for. Pray extend the favor, and say what could possibly be these other and deeper purposes you allude to? What advantages could I propose myself by such an alliance, save increased facilities of conversation with Dr. Tiernay, and more frequent opportunities of indulging in 'tric-trac' with Mr. Corrigan?”

Tiernay winced under the sarcasm, but only said,—

“To divine your motives would be to become your equal in skill and cleverness. I have no pretensions to such excellence.”

“So that you are satisfied with attributing to another objects for which you see no reason and motive, and of which you perceive no drift?”

“I am satisfied to believe in much that I cannot fathom.”

“We will pursue this no further,” said Linton, impatiently. “Let us reverse the medal. Mr. Corrigan's refusal of me, coupled with his uncourteous conduct, may lead to unpleasant results. Is he prepared for such?”

“I have never known him to shrink from the consequences of his own conduct,” replied Tiernay, steadfastly.

“Even though that conduct should leave him houseless?” whispered Linton.

“It cannot, sir, while I have a roof.”

“Generously spoken, sir,” said Linton, while he threw his eyes over the humble decorations of his chamber with an expression of contempt there was no mistaking.

“Humble and poor enough it is, sir,” said Tiernay, answering the glance, “but the fruit of honest industry. Neither a father's curse, nor a mother's tear, hovers over one of the little comforts around me.”

“An ancient Roman in virtue!” exclaimed Linton, affectedly. “How sad that our degenerate days so ill reward such excellence!”

“You are wrong there, sir. Even for merits poor and unobtrusive as mine, there are tributes of affection more costly than great men know of. There are those on every hand around me who would resign health, and hope, and life itself, to do me service. There are some who, in their rude zeal, would think little of making even Mr. Linton regret his having needlessly insulted me. Ay, sir, I have but to open that window and speak one word, and you would sorely repent this day's proceeding.”

Linton sat calm and collected under this burst of anger, as though he were actually enjoying the outbreak he had provoked. “You have a lawless population here, it would seem, then,” said he, smiling blandly, as he rose from his seat. “I think the Government is badly rewarded by bestowing its resources on such a neighborhood. A police-barracks would suit you better than an hospital, and so I shall tell Mr. Downie Meek.”

Tiernay grew suddenly pale. The threat was too papable to be mistaken, nor was he sufficiently conversant with the world of policy to detect its fallacy.

“Two hundred pounds a year,” resumed Linton, “can be of no moment to one who is surrounded by such generous devotion; while some respect for law or order will be a good 'alterative,'—is n't that the phrase, doctor?”

Tiernay could not utter a word. Like many men who pass their lives in seclusion, he had formed the most exaggerated ideas of the despotism of those in power; he believed that for the gratification of a mere whim or passing caprice they would not scruple at an act of oppression that might lead to ruin itself; he felt shocked at the peril to which a hasty word had exposed him. Linton read him like a book, and, gazing fixedly at him, said, “Your craft has taught you little of worldly skill, Dr. Tiernay, or you would have seen that it is better to incur a passing inconvenience than run the risk of a severe and perhaps fatal misfortune. Me-thinks that a science of expediencies might have instilled a few of its wise precepts into every-day life.”

The doctor stared, half in astonishment, half in anger, but never spoke.

“Reflect a little upon this point,” said Linton, slowly; “remember, too, that a man like myself, who never acts without an object, may be a very good associate for him who has neither courage nor energy for action at all; and lastly, bethink you that the subtlety and skill which can make a useful friend, can become very readily the materials of a dangerous enemy.”

Linton knew well the force and significance of vagueness, either in threat or promise; and no sooner had he done speaking than he left the room and the house; while Tiernay, bewildered and terrified, sat down to think over what had passed.

“He 'll come to terms, I see that!” cried Linton to himself, as he entered the park of Tubbermore. “A little time, a sleepless night or two, the uncertainty of that future which to every man past fifty gets another tinge of black with each year, will do the business, and I 'll have him suing for the conditions he would now reject.”

Never yet, however, had time been a greater object with Linton. The host of creditors whom he had staved off for some months back—some by paying large sums on account; others by the assurance that he was on the eve of a rich marriage—would, at the very first semblance of his defeat, return and overwhelm him. Many of his debts were incurred to hush up play transactions, which, if once made public, his station in society would be no longer tenable. Of his former associates, more than one lived upon him by the mere menace of the past. Some were impatient, too, at the protracted game he played with Roland, and reproached him with not “finishing him off” long before, by cards and the dice-box. Others were indignant that they were not admitted to the share of the spoil, with all the contingent advantages of mixing in a class where they might have found the most profitable acquaintances. To hold all these in check had been a difficult matter, and few save himself could have accomplished it To restrain them much longer was impossible. With these thoughts he walked along, scarce noticing the long string of carriages which now filled the avenue, and hastened towards the house. Occasionally a thought would cross his mind, “What if the bullet had already done its work? What if that vast estate were now once more thrown upon the wide ocean of litigation? Would Corrigan prefer his claim again, or would some new suitor spring up?—and if so, what sum could recompense the possession of that pardon by which the whole property might be restored to its ancient owners?” Amid all these canvassings, no feeling arose for the fate of him who had treated him as a bosom friend,—not one regret, not so much as one sensation of pity. True, indeed, he did reflect upon what course to adopt when the tidings arrived. Long did he vacillate whether Tom Keane should not be arrested on suspicion. There were difficulties in either course, and, as usual, he preferred that coming events should suggest their own conduct.

At last he reached the great house, but instead of entering by the front door, he passed into the courtyard, and gained his own apartment unobserved. As he entered he locked the door, and placed the key in such a manner that none could peep through the keyhole. He then walked leisurely around the room; and although he knew there was no other outlet, he cast a glance of scrutinizing import on every side, as if to ensure himself that he was alone. This done, he opened a small cupboard in the wall behind his bed, and took forth the iron box, in which, since its discovery, he had always kept the pardon, as well as the forged conveyance of Tubber-beg.

Linton placed the box before him on the table, and gazed at it in a kind of rapture. “There,” thought he, “lies the weapon by which at once I achieve both fortune and revenge. Let events take what turn they will, there is a certain source of wealth. A great estate like this will have its claimants; with me it rests who shall be the successful one.”

A hurried knocking at the door interrupted the current of these musings; and Linton, having replaced the casket in the press, unlocked the door. It was Mr. Phillis, who, in all the gala of full dress, and with a rare camellia in his button-hole, entered.

“Well, Phillis, is all going on as it ought?” said Linton, carelessly.

“Scarcely so, sir,” said the soft-voiced functionary; “the house is filling fast, but there is no one to receive the company; and they are walking about staring at each other, and asking who is to do the honors.”

“Awkward, certainly,” said Linton, coolly; “Lady Kilgoff ought to have been the person.”

“She is gone, sir,” said Phillis.

“Gone! gone! When, and where?”

“I cannot say, sir; but my Lord and her Ladyship left this morning early, with post-horses, taking the Dublin road.”

Linton did not speak, but the swollen vein in his forehead, and the red flush upon his brow, told how the tidings affected him. He had long speculated on witnessing the agonies of her grief when the hour of his revenge drew nigh; and this ecstasy of cruelty was now to be denied him.

“And my Lord—had he regained any consciousness, or was he still insensible?”

“He appeared like a child, sir, when they lifted him into the carriage.”

“And Lady Kilgoff?”

“She held her veil doubled over her face as she passed; but I thought she sighed, and even sobbed, as she handed me this letter.”

“'For Roland Cashel, Esquire,'” said Linton, reading as he took it. “Did she speak at all, Phillis?”

“Not a word, sir. It was a sad-looking procession altogether, moving away in the dim gray of the morning.”

Linton placed the letter in a rack upon the chimney, and for some seconds was lost in thought.

“If Lady Janet, sir, would be kind enough to receive the company,” murmured Phillis, softly.

“Pooh, man, it is of no consequence!” said Linton, roughly, his mind dwelling on a very different theme. “Let who will play host or hostess.”

“Perhaps you would come down yourself soon, sir?” asked Phillis, who read in the impatience of Linton's manner the desire to be alone, and coupled that desire with some mysterious purpose.

“Yes, leave me, Phillis; I'm going to dress,” said he, hurriedly. “Has he returned yet?”

“No, sir; and we expected him at five o'clock.”

“And it is now nine,” said the other, solemnly; “four hours later.”

“It is very singular!” exclaimed Phillis, who was more struck by the altered expression of Linton's face than by the common-place fact he affected to marvel at.

“Why singular? What is remarkable? That a man should be delayed some time on a business matter, particularly when there was no urgency to repair elsewhere?”

“Nothing more common, sir; only that Mr. Cashel said positively he should be here at five. He had ordered the cob pony to be ready for him,—a sign that he was going to pay a visit at the cottage.”

Linton made no reply, but his lips curled into a smile of dark and ominous meaning.

“Leave me, Phillis,” said he, at length; “I shall be late with all this cumbrous finery I am to wear.”

“Shall I send your man, sir?” said Phillis, slyly eying him as he spoke.

“Yes—no, Phillis—not yet I 'll ring for him later.”

And with these words Linton seated himself in a large chair, apparently unconscious of the other's presence.

Mr. Phillis withdrew noiselessly—but not far; for after advancing a few steps along the corridor, he cautiously returned, and listened at the door.

Linton sat for a few seconds, as if listening to the other's retreating footsteps; and then, noiselessly arising from his chair, he approached the door of the chamber, at which, with bent-down head, Phillis watched. With a sudden jerk of the handle Linton threw open the door, and stood before the terrified menial.

“I was afraid you were ill, sir. I thought your manner was strange.”

“Not half so strange as this conduct, Mr. Phillis,” said Linton, slowly, as he folded his arms composedly on his breast. “Come in.” He pointed, as he spoke, to the room; but Phillis seemed reluctant to enter, and made a gesture of excuse. “Come in, sir,” said Linton, peremptorily; and he obeyed. Linton immediately locked the door, and placed the key upon the chimney-piece; then deliberately seating himself full in front of the other, he stared at him long and fixedly. “So, sir,” said he, at length, “you have thought fit to become a spy upon my actions. Now, there is but one amende you can make for such treachery,—which is, to confess frankly and openly what it is you want to know, and what small mystery is puzzling your puny intelligence, and making your nights sleepless. Tell me this candidly, and I'll answer as freely.”

“I have really nothing to confess, sir. I was fearful lest you were unwell. I thought—it was mere fancy, perhaps—that you were flurried and peculiar this morning; and this impression distressed me so, that—that—”

“That you deemed fit to watch me. Be it so. I have few secrets from any one; I have none from my friends. You shall hear, therefore what—without my knowing it—has made me appear unusually agitated. It was my intention to leave this house to-morrow, Phillis, and in the preparation for my departure I was arranging my letters and papers, among which I found a very considerable quantity that prudence would consign to the flames,—that is to say, if prudence were to be one-sided, and had only regard for the interests of one individual where there were two concerned. In plain language, Phillis, I was just about to burn the mass of documents which fill that iron safe, and which it were to the honor and credit of Mr. Phillis should be reduced to charcoal as speedily as may be, the same being nothing more nor less than the accounts of that 'honest steward,' pinned to the real and bona fide bills of Mr. Cashel's tradespeople. There are, it is true, strange little discrepancies between the two, doubtless capable of satisfactory explanation, but which, to plain-thinking men like myself, are difficult to reconcile; and in some one or two instances—a wine merchant's account, for example, and a saddler's bill—savor somewhat of that indiscreet procedure people call forgery. What a mistake—what an inadvertence, Phillis!”

There was something of almost coaxing familiarity in the way Linton uttered the last words; and Phillis grew sick at heart as he listened to them.

“A moment more, an instant later, and I had thrown them into the fire; but your footsteps, as you walked away, sounded too purpose-like; you were so palpably honest that I began to suspect you. Eh, Phillis, was I right?”

Phillis essayed a smile, but his features only accomplished a ghastly grin.

“I will keep them, therefore, where they are,” said Linton. “These impulses of rash generosity are very costly pleasures; and there is no such good practical economy as to husband one's confidence.”

“I 'm sure, sir, I never thought I should have seen the day—”

“Go on, man; don't falter. What day do you mean?—that on which you had attempted to outwit me; or, that on which I should show you all the peril of your attempting it? Ay, and there is peril, Mr. Phillis: a felony whose punishment is transportation for life is no small offence.”

“Oh, sir!—oh, Mr. Linton, forgive me!” cried the other, in the most abject voice. “I always believed that my devotion to your interests would claim your protection.”

“I never promised to further anything that was base or dishonest,” said Linton, with an air of assumed morality.

“You opened and read letters that were addressed to another; you spied his actions, and kept watch upon all his doings; you wrote letters in his name, and became possessed of every secret of his life by treachery; you—”

“Don't talk so loud, Phillis; say all you have to say to me.”

“Oh, dear, sir, forgive me the burst of passion. I never meant it. My temper carried me away in spite of me.” And he burst into tears as he spoke.

“What a dangerous temper, that may at any moment make a felon of its owner! Go, Phillis, there is no need of more between us. You know me. I almost persuaded myself that I knew you. But if I know anything, it is this”—here he approached, and laid his hand solemnly on the other's shoulder—“that I would make hell itself the punishment of him who injured me, were I even to share it with him.”

Phillis's knees smote each other with terror at the look that accompanied these words; they were spoken without passion or vehemence, but there was that in their tone that thrilled to his inmost heart Powerless, and overcome by his emotions, he could not stir from the spot: he wanted to make explanations and excuses, but all his ingenuity deserted him; he tried to utter vows of attachment and fidelity, but shame was too strong for him there also. He would have resorted to menace itself rather than remain silent, but he had no courage for such a hazardous course. Linton appeared to read in turn each change of mood that passed across the other's mind; and after waiting, as it were, to enjoy the confusion under which he suffered, said,—

“Just so, Phillis; it is a sad scrape you fell into. But when a man becomes bankrupt either in fame or fortune, it is but loss of time to bewail the past; the wiser course is to start in business again, and make a character by a good dividend. Try that plan. Good-bye!”

These words were a command; and so Phillis understood them, as, with an humble bow, he left the room. Linton again locked the door, and drawing the table to a part of the room from which no eavesdropper at the door could detect it, he once more sat down at it. His late scene with Phillis had left no traces upon his memory; such events were too insignificant to claim any notice beyond the few minutes they occupied; his thoughts were now upon the greater game, where all his fortune in life was staked. He took out the key, which he always wore round his neck, and placed it in the lock; at the same instant the clock on the chimney-piece struck ten. He sat still, listening to the strokes; and when they ceased, he muttered, “Ay, mayhap cold enough ere this!” A slight shuddering shook him as he uttered these words, and a dreamy revery seemed to gather around him; but he arose, and walking to the window, opened it. The fresh breeze of the night rallied him almost at once, and he closed the sash and returned to his place.

“To think that I should hold within my hands the destinies of those whom most of all the world I hate!” muttered he, as he turned the key and threw back the lid. The box was empty! With a wild cry, like the accent of intense bodily pain, he sprang up and dashed both hands into the vacant space, and then held them up before his eyes, like one who could not credit the evidence of his own senses. The moment was a terrible one, and for a few seconds the staring eyeballs and quivering lips seemed to threaten the access of a fit; but reason at last assumed the mastery, and he sat down before the table and leaned his head upon it to think. Twice before in life had it been his lot to lose a fortune at one turn of the die, but never before had he staked all the revengeful feelings of his bad heart, which, baffled in their flow, now came back upon himself.

He sat thus for nigh an hour; and when he arose at last, his features were worn as though by a long illness; and as he moved his fingers through his hair, it came away in masses, like that of a man after fever.