It was long past midnight—and Mr. Torrens was still pacing the parlour with uneven steps, when a low double knock at the front-door aroused him from his painful meditations.

Wondering who could visit the cottage at that late hour, he hastened to reply to the summons; and, to his surprise, the lustre of the parlour-lamp which he carried in his hand, streamed full upon the pale and agitated countenance of Sir Henry Courtenay.

Making a sign to the baronet not to speak, Mr. Torrens led the way into the parlour; and the visitor, in the excitement of the feelings which had brought him to the cottage, neglected to shut the front-door close as he entered, but merely pushed it back in such a way that the bolt of the lock did not catch.

This little incident was unperceived by the two gentlemen.

When they were both in the parlour, Mr. Torrens shut the room-door, and said in a low whisper, "She has come home!"

"Thank God! she is safe then!" observed the baronet, also in a subdued voice. "The fact is, Mrs. Slingsby and myself were so dreadfully frightened that she might either make away with herself, or else adopt some measure that would lead to a certain exposure, that we have both been hunting for her through all the streets at the West End; and at last I determined, late as it was, to come over and acquaint you with her flight. But it never struck me that I should hear of her return home."

"She is unaware of my sad complicity in the dreadful business," replied Mr. Torrens sternly. "But pray repeat to me the whole conversation which took place between Mrs. Slingsby and yourself, and which she unfortunately overheard. I shall then be enabled to judge whether reflection on that discourse may lead her to imagine that her own father was indeed a party to her ruin; for I must confess that I have terrible fears lest she should indeed imbibe such a suspicion."

"Give me a tumbler of wine, Torrens," said the baronet, throwing himself upon the sofa which had so lately been pressed by his victim when in a state of insensibility: "I am regularly exhausted, for I have walked all the way hither;—and, when I have a little recovered myself, I will detail all the conversation which took place between me and Mrs. Slingsby, as nearly as I shall be able to recollect it."

Mr. Torrens produced a bottle of wine from the side-board, he having already emptied the decanter upon the table.

"Help yourself, Sir Henry," he said: "and in the meantime I will steal cautiously up stairs and see if Rosamond be yet retired to rest—for I would not for worlds have her come down and find you here."

"A wise precaution," observed the baronet.

Mr. Torrens accordingly quitted the parlour, and hastened up stairs. He stopped at the door of his daughter's chamber, and listened. Profound sobs and impassioned ejaculations, indicative of terrible grief, met his ears; and he grew alarmed lest she should feel herself so thoroughly wretched and lonely as to be unable to sleep, and perhaps return to the parlour.

He accordingly knocked gently at the door, and Rosamond speedily opened it.

She had not as yet divested herself of a particle of her clothing, nor made any preparation to retire to rest; and her countenance was so truly woebegone—so thoroughly the picture of a deeply-seated grief, that even her iron-hearted father was affected to tears. She threw her arms around his neck, and thanked him for his kind solicitude. He remained with her nearly half-an-hour, exerting all his power of language to console her; and the anxiety which he experienced to induce her to seek her couch, so that he might return to the parlour and get rid of Sir Henry Courtenay as soon as possible, rendered him so eloquent and so effective in the (to him) novel art of administering solace, that he succeeded fully.

"Now I am convinced that you do not loathe, despise, and hate your daughter," said Rosamond at length; "and this impression has removed an immense weight from my mind. Though true happiness may never more be mine, yet shall I find a substitute in Christian resignation to my fate; and henceforth, dear father, I will not make you unhappy by compelling you to act the part of a comforter. And now, good night, my only friend—my beloved parent; and fear not that I shall give way again to that violent outpouring of grief in which you so kindly interrupted me."

Mr. Torrens embraced his daughter, and a pang shot to his heart as he thought of his infernal conduct towards that good and affectionate girl!

As he descended the stairs he heard her lock her chamber-door; and he was just congratulating himself upon the success of his attempt to console her, when the murmuring sounds of voices, apparently coming from the front parlour, caused him to redouble his pace thither—for the idea flashed to his mind that Mrs. Slingsby might also have visited the cottage in her alarm concerning Rosamond, and that the baronet had probably afforded her admission while he was up stairs with his daughter.

Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler, bent on their predatory intent, and hoping to reap a good harvest at the house of Mr. Torrens, approached that dwelling nearly half an hour after Sir Henry Courtenay had entered it.

Perceiving a light gleaming from the divisions in the parlour-shutters, they crept cautiously up to the window, and through those crevices beheld the glittering gold piled upon the table, and a person lying upon the sofa, apparently in a profound sleep.

The fact was that the baronet was completely exhausted with his long walk from Old Burlington Street to the Cottage; and, having tossed off a tumbler of wine, he lay down on the sofa to await Mr. Torrens' return.

But we have seen that the father had found his daughter in such a state of profound affliction as to be totally unable to leave her for nearly half an hour; and during that interval an irresistible drowsiness stole over Sir Henry Courtenay,—speedily wrapping him in a deep slumber.

Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler were determined to risk "the crack," in spite of the sleeper whom they descried upon the sofa, and whom they believed to be Mr. Torrens; for neither was this gentleman nor the baronet known to them by sight.

With their housebreaking implements they were on the point of making an attempt on the front-door; when it yielded to their touch, and swung noiselessly open. At this they were not at all surprised; for it immediately struck them that John Jeffreys had expected the visit that night, and had left the door ajar on purpose.

They stole into the house, and succeeded in entering the parlour without arousing the baronet.

Tim the Snammer instantly drew forth his clasp-knife, and, bending over Sir Henry Courtenay, held the murderous weapon close to his throat, while Josh Pedler hastily secured the notes and gold about his person.

"We may as well have the plate, if there is any," whispered this individual to his companion. "In fact, we'll have a regular ransack of the place; and if he awakes——"

"I'll cut his infernal throat in a jiffey," added Tim the Snammer.

Josh grinned an approval of this summary mode of proceeding, and opened one of the side-board drawers. But the noise which a sugar-basin or some such article made inside the drawer, by falling over with the sudden jerk, aroused the sleeper.

Sir Henry Courtenay started—opened his eyes—beheld a strange countenance hanging over him—and was about to utter a cry of alarm, when the terrible clasp-knife was drawn rapidly and violently across his throat.

There was a dull, gurgling noise—a convulsive quivering of the entire frame,—but not a groan—much less an exclamation of terror,—and Sir Henry Courtenay was no more!

"Come along, Tim," said Josh Pedler, whose face was ghastly pale. "We've done enough for to-night."

"Yes—let us be off," returned the murderer, now shuddering at the dreadful deed which he had just perpetrated.

And they were issuing from the room, when the noise of footsteps on the stairs made them redouble their speed to gain the front-door.

It was Mr. Torrens who had thus alarmed them; but they escaped without molestation—for when that gentleman reached the hall, and beheld two men rushing towards the front-door, he was himself seized with such profound terror—painfully strung as his feelings had been that night—that he was for a few moments stupified, and rivetted to the spot.

But when he saw the front-door close behind the strangers, he took courage—hastily secured it within—and then hurried to the parlour, in agony of fear lest his gold and notes should have become the prey of plunderers!

One glance at the table was sufficient:—the money was gone!

Mr. Torrens dashed his open palm against his forehead with frantic violence, and was about to utter a cry of rage and despair, when the remembrance of his unhappy daughter sealed his lips.

At the same instant he looked towards the sofa:—but, holy God! what a spectacle met his view!

For there lay the baronet with his head nearly severed from his body,—murdered—barbarously murdered upon the very sofa where his victim had so lately reposed in trance-like insensibility. On that sofa slept he his last sleep; and, even in that appalling moment when Mr. Torrens recoiled, shuddering and shocked, from the dreadful sight, it struck him that there was something of retributive justice not only in the loss of his own treasure but also in the death of Sir Henry Courtenay!

The frightened man uttered not a murmur as that spectacle encountered his eyes. His amazement was of so stupifying a nature that it sealed his lips—paralysed his powers of utterance. With staring orbs he gazed on the grisly corpse from which he recoiled staggeringly; and several minutes elapsed ere he could so far command his presence of mind, as even to become aware of his own dreadful predicament.

But as the truth dawned upon him, he was seized with indescribable alarms—with horrible apprehensions.

The double crime of robbery and murder, had been perpetrated so speedily and so noiselessly, that not a soul in the house was alarmed by any unusual sound—and Mr. Torrens felt the sickening conviction that it would be a difficult thing to persuade a jury that he himself was innocent! Suspicion must inevitably attach itself to him:—circumstantial evidence would be strong against him! In a word, the appalling truth broke in upon him, that he would be accused of the assassination of Sir Henry Courtenay!

Mr. Torrens sate down, and, burying his face in his hands, fell into a profound but most painful meditation.

Should he raise an alarm—arouse Jeffreys and the female-servant, as well as his daughter—and proclaim all he knew about the horrible transaction! No:—something whispered in his ear that he would not be believed. Rosamond, not knowing that he was the baronet's accomplice in achieving her dishonour, would naturally conceive that the murder was the result of paternal vengeance. It was, then, impossible to suffer the occurrence to transpire. But what was he to do with the body?—how dispose of it? Terrible dilemma!

All the atrocity of his crime towards his daughter now returned with a tremendously augmenting intensity to his mind. His punishment on earth had already begun:—he was doomed—accursed. Wretched man! gold was thy destroyer! Ah! gold—but thou hast lost thy gold,—and in a few days the creditors who yet remain unpaid, will be upon thee! But——

What!—does such an idea actually strike him?—urging him to plunder the murdered victim of any coin which there may be about the corpse! Yes:—and now behold the father, who sold the honour of his child, about to examine the pockets of that child's assassinated ravisher?

The purse contains some fifteen or sixteen sovereigns; and these Mr. Torrens self-appropriates. The pocket-book of the deceased is next scrutinized. But there are no Bank-notes—nothing save papers and memoranda, totally valueless.

Mr. Torrens stamps his foot with rage:—his predicament is truly awful. Ruin still menaces him on one side in respect to his affairs—for, having reckoned on the money to be produced by the sale of his daughter's virtue, he had contracted fresh liabilities within the last ten days: and on the other side is the terrible danger in which the presence of that corpse may involve him! Add to these sources of agonising feelings, the conviction that the sacrifice of Rosamond will, after all, have proved ineffectual in respect to the complete settlement of his affairs, even should he succeed in burying the more serious event—namely the murder—in impenetrable mystery,—and the wretched state of mind in which Mr. Torrens was now plunged, may be conceived.

He rose from the chair, on which he had a second time flung himself, after plundering the corpse, and approached the time-piece.

It was half-past one o'clock.

But as Mr. Torrens glanced at the dial, which thus told him how short an interval remained for him to take some decisive step, if he really intended to dispose of the corpse before the servants should be stirring, he caught a glimpse of his countenance in the mirror over the mantel.

He recoiled—he shrank back with horror.

Was it indeed his own countenance that he saw?

Or was it that of some unquiet ghost, wandering near the spot where its mortal tenement had been cruelly murdered?

He turned round suddenly, to avoid farther contemplation of that ghastly visage;—and again he recoiled from an object of terror—staggered—and would have fallen, had he not caught the back of a chair for support.

For in the half open door way he beheld a human face, which was withdrawn the moment his eyes encountered it.

Driven to desperation, and reckless now of what might happen to him, the maddened man rushed into the hall, in time to observe a figure turn the angle of the staircase.

In another moment he had caught that figure by the arm; and, dragging the person forcibly down, beheld his new man-servant John Jeffreys, by the light of the lamp streaming from the open parlour-door.

Totally forgetful at the instant of the presence of the corpse in the room,—so terribly excited and bewildered was he,—Mr. Torrens dragged Jeffreys into the parlour to demand the reason why he was up and dressed at that hour of the night—or rather morning:—and it was not until he saw the man himself turn ghastly pale as his eyes encountered the hideous spectacle on the sofa, that Mr. Torrens remembered the frightful oversight which he had committed.

Then, hastening to close the room-door, which he locked also, Mr. Torrens said, "Why are you up? and wherefore were you prying about the house?"

The fact was that Jeffreys had expected a visit from some of Old Death's gang that night, and had never retired to bed at all. He heard the two double-knocks at the door—the first being that given by Rosamond, and the other by the baronet;—and when the robbers had quitted the house, closing the front-door after them, Jeffreys thought it must be the last visitor (whoever he might be) going away. After that the house had remained quiet for some little time; and Jeffreys fancied that Mr. Torrens had retired to bed. He had accordingly stolen down from his bed-room to unfasten a window shutter, and thus render the ingress of the expected robbers an easy matter: but perceiving a light in the parlour, he began to suspect that they must be already there. Accordingly he crept cautiously up to the door, and was for a moment stupified when he obtained a glimpse of the reflection of his master's ghastly countenance in the mirror, a view of which he could command from the hall.

"Why are you up? and wherefore were you prying about the house?" demanded Mr. Torrens.

"The truth is, sir, I heard a noise, just now, and I was afeard that thieves was breaking in," was the ready reply: "so I got up and dressed; but, sir—"

And he glanced significantly towards the dead body.

"Jeffreys," said Mr. Torrens, in a hurried and excited tone, "a dreadful event has occurred to-night. This gentleman came to call upon me late—on very particular business—I left him here, while I went up stairs to speak to my daughter, who has returned home—and, on coming down stairs again, I saw two men escaping from the house. When I entered the parlour, a considerable sum of money, which I had left on the table, was gone—and my poor friend was as you now see him!"

The man-servant believed the tale; but he affected not to do so—for he was villain enough to rejoice at such an opportunity of getting his master completely in his power.

"You smile incredulously, John," said Mr. Torrens; "and yet I take heaven to witness——"

"It's orkard, sir—very orkard," observed Jeffreys; "and may be it'll lead to scragging, if the stiff'un isn't put away."

Mr. Torrens shuddered from head to foot.

"What do you mean to do, sir?" asked Jeffreys. "I am quite ready to assist you; but it's getting on for two o'clock——"

"Yes, I know it," interrupted Mr. Torrens. "I am mad—I am driven to desperation! What would you advise? But will you be faithful? Will you keep the secret? I can reward you——"

"We'll talk of that another time, sir," said Jeffreys; "for the present let's think of making away with the stiff'un. We must bury it. Stay here a moment, sir, while I go and get the stable lanthorn and a sack."

"Or rather," observed Mr. Torrens, "I will fetch some water to wash the carpet; fortunately, the blood has not trickled upon the sofa."

Noiselessly the two crept away from the parlour—one to the stables, the other to the kitchen.

In a few minutes they met again by the side of the corpse, which they thrust into the sack; and between them the load was conveyed to the stable.

"You go and clean the carpet, sir," said John Jeffreys, whose superior presence of mind served to invest him with authority to direct the proceedings; "while I dig a hole in the garden."

Mr. Torrens hastened to obey the suggestion of his servant, and returned to the parlour, where he cleansed the carpet, as well as he could. He then took a bottle of Port-wine from the side-board, and broke it over the very spot where the blood had dripped down, leaving the fractured glass strewed about, and drawing the table near the sofa, so as to produce the appearance of the bottle having been accidentally knocked off it.

Nearly half an hour was consumed in this occupation; and Mr. Torrens, whose mind was already much relieved, hastened back to the garden, where Jeffreys was busily engaged in digging a grave for the murdered baronet. When the servant was tired, his master took a turn with the spade; and, as the soil was not particularly hard, an hour saw the completion of the labour.

The corpse was thrown into the hole, and the earth was shovelled over it—each layer being well stamped down by the feet.

When the task was accomplished, Mr. Torrens and Jeffreys re-entered the house; and, ere they separated to retire to their respective rooms, the former said, in a low whisper, "Once more I conjure you to maintain this secret inviolable, and I will find means to reward you well. For the present take this!"

And he slipped ten sovereigns—a portion of the murdered baronet's money—into the hands of Jeffreys.

"Don't be afeard that I'm leaky, sir," responded the man, clutching the gold, and consigning it to his pocket, where he had already stowed away the baronet's handsome repeater and gold rings—to which valuables he had helped himself, while his master was busily engaged in cleansing the carpet in the parlour;—for Mr. Torrens had merely plundered the corpse of the contents of the purse, and had not touched the jewellery, through fear that it might lead to the detection of the murder, if seen in his possession.

Master and man now separated—the former to seek a sleepless couch, and the latter to dream of the good fortune which that night's adventure had brought him.

And in his unconsecrated grave—a victim to the assassin's knife—slept the once gay, dissipated, and unprincipled Sir Henry Courtenay!