At ten o'clock that night, business was running lively at the low ceiled, dingy, riverside saloon, that was most popular with the factory men, the colliers, the drovers, and the promiscuous roughs of W——, and that bears the dignified title of "Old Forty Rods."

The saloon is well patronized to-night. At the upper end, nearest the door, "Old Forty," in person, is passing liquors across the bar, and bawling orders to a nimble assistant, while every now and then he addresses a coarse jest to some one of the numerous loafers about the bar, mingling them strangely with his orders, and his calling of the drinks, as he passes them across the rail.

"Here's your beer, Lupin; Jack, half a dozen brandies for Mr. Burrill's party; Little, you are out on the brown horse—rum and water? Yes, sir, yes."

"Burrill's beastly high to-night," said a factory hand, setting down his beer glass and wiping his mouth; "and the boys freeze to him since he handles old Lamotte's rocks."

"Of course, of course. Burrill don't forget old friends; Jack, bring the rum flask; they've been here a plum hour, them chaps, sir; 'ere's your punch, mister, and they keep the stuff runnin' down their throats, now I can tell you. Burrill foots the bill, of course; and they can do anything with that big chap when the wines get the upper hands of him. I'll be sworn, they're up to mischief to-night, for I see Rooney and Bob Giles, they delight in getting Burrill into scrapes, are drinking light, and plying him heavy," and "Forty" turned about to draw a glass of beer for a low-browed, roughly-dressed man who had just entered, and who was in fact, none other than the tramp who had feasted by the roadside, on the day before, and whom Mr. Belknap had called Roake.

Roake drank his beer, and lounged over the bar for a short time, then called for a second glass, and after drinking it, went quietly out.

At the lower end of the long saloon, several tables are scattered, and gathered about one of these we see the party spoken of as "Mr. Burrill's."

Five men are grouped about the small table, and among these, John Burrill is conspicuous for being much better dressed, much louder in his laughter, and viler in his jests, and much drunker than are the other four.

Since his change of fortunes, these men have made capital of his weakness, and his purse has supplied their thirst, in return for which he has been fawned upon, and flattered, during the earlier stages of his intoxication, and made a tool and a jest later.

"I mus' go home," articulated Burrill, drawing forth and consulting a showy gold repeater. "Folks's sick er home; mus' be good; take er nother drink, boys?"

"Folks sick, eh?" queried Rooney, winking behind his hand at the others, "wife, I 'spose?"

"Yes, wife I 'spose; wife 'n' brother-in-law, both sick; take er nother—"

"All right, old pard; but don't let a little sickness call you off so early; just let Heath take care of them; you're fond of Heath, too."

"Curse Heath!" roared out John Burrill; "what do you mean, I say, Roo-Roo-ney?"

"Burrill," said Bob Giles, setting down his glass and speaking in a low, confidential tone; "what's this power you have over Heath? Don't you know he's afraid of you?"

"He—he zer 'fraid er me! an' so he better be—him un—"

"And yet there are two or three of the fellows that say you are the one that's afraid."

"Me afraid! I—John Bur—ll, f-fraid. Boys, look, en I'll jus' tell you a s-secret. If I jus' opened my mouth, I could run that f-fellow out of the country; fact!" and he nodded sagaciously again and again.

"Then there ain't no truth in that story that you are the one that's afraid, and that you wouldn't dare go to Heath's office, not even if you wanted a doctor?"

"T-truth? By gad, sir, show me the man that says so; show 'im to me! By heavens, sir, I wouldn't be f-fraid to rout him up the d-darkest night that ever blew, sir."

"Of course not, we don't doubt that, but—there's them do. I'll tell you what it is, Burrill, the thing would be settled if you would just walk up to the doctor's cottage, tell him you are sick somewhere, and bring away a prescription; that would settle it."

A murmur of approval went round the table. Not a man was there among them who would not rejoice inwardly at the discomfiture of the arrogant, would-be aristocrat, who, while he was less than their equal in many things, had risen above them in fortune. He had reached that period of drunkenness, and it took a vast quantity of stout liquor to bring him up to it, where his voice began to grow hoarse, his ready tongue to trip, his brain to be most completely muddled, and his legs to be most unreliable instruments of locomotion. The men about the table nodded and winked to each other, under his very nose.

"Egg him on, Rooney," whispered Giles, "let's have the fun out." And they did.

Ere long, John Burrill, staggering under the additional cargo of drinks imbibed as toasts to the undertaking, and again, as draughts of defiance to the enemy who would dare question his courage, buttoned his coat about him, and, boasting, cursing, and swaggering, reeled out into the night. Out into the night that swallowed him up forever.

"Let's follow him," said one of the plotters, starting up as the door closed behind him.

But this proposition met with no favor. The night was very dark, and the wind blowing in fierce gusts; the saloon was warm and inviting, and their victim had ordered their grog, until he should return.

"Let's drink the good liquor he has paid for," said Rooney, with a wink, "then we will let some more of the boys into the secret, and start out in a gang and gather him up. Heath will kick him out sure enough, and if we follow too close we might be discovered. Not by Burrill but by the doctor. We will bring Burrill back here and two more drinks will make him tell the whole story."

They did not agree with Rooney on all points of his argument; but they had played a coarse, practical joke upon a man who sometimes "took on airs" and vaunted himself as their patron; he who had been only their equal once. It was only a joke, a witless, mirthless, coarse saloon joke, and they drank on and grew hilarious, never dreaming that they had sent one man to his grave, and another to the foot of the scaffold.

As John Burrill came forth from the saloon and turned his face toward Doctor Heath's cottage, a lithe form emerged from amidst the darkness and paused for a moment just outside the saloon door, seeming to hesitate.

"He's goin' home, in course," muttered the man. "I'll jest light out and come in ahead." And he plunged down a by street and went swiftly over the bridge; but not alone.

A second dark form had been lurking in the vicinity of "Old Forty's," the form of a boy, who glided through the dark, at the heels of the other, like a spirit.

"He is going wrong," thought this shadow, discontentedly. "Somehow I'm sure of it; I'm shadowing the wrong party; but—I'm obeying instructions." And pursued and pursuer crossed the bridge and turned their steps toward Mapleton.

Meantime, John Burrill, reeling, singing snatches of low songs, and stopping sometimes to rest and assure himself that all the landmarks are there, pursues his way toward Doctor Heath's cottage.

It is situated on the outskirts of the town; the way is long, the night dark, the wind boisterous, and the way lonely. It is after ten o'clock.

Later—nearly two hours later, Frank Lamotte, driven by his demon of unrest, is pacing his room, feverish and fierce, when his door opens softly, a white, haggard face looks in, a hoarse voice articulates, "Frank, for God's sake, for your own sake, come with me quick!"

Frank Lamotte turns swiftly, angrily. He is about to speak, when something catches his eye, fixes it in horror, and causes him to gasp out, pointing with one shaking finger.

"Ah-h-h! what is that?"

"It is the Family Honor!" came the hissing answer. "Come, I tell you."

And like a man in a nightmare, Frank Lamotte obeys.