It will be recollected that Mrs. Mortimer was far from being unprovided with money—her share of the spoil obtained from Torrens still being in her possession, with the trifling deduction of the few pounds she had expended in travelling, clothes, and maintenance, during the interval that had elapsed since the occurrences in Stamford Street.

The bulk of the amount thus remaining to her had been carefully sewn in her stays, so that it had altogether escaped the notice of Jack Rily: and thus the old woman was not destitute of resources.

But the sum in her possession was a mere trifle when compared with that which she had hoped to acquire from the forgery; and she now resolved to leave no stone unturned—no measure unattempted, however desperate, in order to accomplish her aim. Besides, she longed—she craved to wreak a terrific vengeance upon her daughter,—yes—upon her own daughter: for the remorse and the softer feelings which had ere now found an avenue into her breast, when Laura renounced her, were only evanescent and short-lived. We have moreover seen that this temporary weakness was speedily succeeded by the desperation produced by a terrible resolve to which her mind came as it were all in a moment!

Impelled by this sinister influence, Mrs. Mortimer lost no time in repairing to Roupel Street, where she found Jack Rily lolling in a chair, smoking his pipe and enjoying a quart of half-and-half.

“Well, my old tiger-cat, what news?” he exclaimed, the moment Mrs. Mortimer made her appearance. “Have you succeeded with your beautiful daughter?”

“Very far from it,” was the answer. “And now,” she added, ere the Doctor had time to give vent to the oath which rose to his lips through the vexation of disappointment,—“and now the matter has come to that extreme point when nothing but a desperate step can prevent the presentation of the genuine cheque to-morrow.”

“Are you sure it will not be presented to-day?” demanded Jack Rily.

“Yes; my daughter said that she should present it to-morrow,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have every reason to believe that she will not go near the bank to-day. In fact, she was married this morning to a young Italian nobleman, whom she loves deeply, and whom she will not therefore quit, even for an hour, on her wedding-day.”

“Well, and what do you propose?” asked Jack Rily, fixing upon her a significant look, which shewed that he already more than half divined what was passing in her bosom.

“Are you man enough to risk all—every thing—for the sake of that thirty thousand pounds which will become your share if we succeed?” demanded the old woman, returning the look with one of equally ominous meaning.

“I am man enough to do any thing for such a sum!” he answered, sinking his voice to a low whisper, and laying down his pipe—a proof that he considered the topic of discourse to be growing too serious to permit any abstraction of the thoughts.

“Then you understand me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, leaning forward, and surveying him with a penetration which appeared to read the secrets of his inmost soul.

“Yes—I understand you, my tiger-cat,” replied the man; and he drew his hand significantly across his throat.

“Well, and will you do it?” she asked.

“But it is your own daughter,” he observed, shuddering at the atrocity of the woman’s mind which could calmly contemplate such a fearful deed.

“She has renounced me,” was the laconic answer.

“Nevertheless, you are still her mother,” persisted Jack Rily.

“I discard her—for ever!” responded the horrible old woman.

“Well—you astounded me at first,” said the Doctor, in a slow tone, as he reflected profoundly upon the extreme step suggested: “but I can look at the business with a more steady eye now. I always thought that I was bad enough: but, by God! you beat anything I ever knew in the shape of wickedness.”

“Then you refuse—you decline?” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively, while rage convulsed her entire frame—for she dreaded lest the money should be lost, and Laura escape her vengeance.

“By Satan!” cried the Doctor; “if you have pluck enough to propose, I am not the man to refuse to execute the scheme. But how do I know that when the critical moment comes, remorse won’t seize on you, and you’ll cry off?”

“When I have made up my mind to anything, I am not to be deterred by difficulty—danger—or compunction,” answered the old woman. “I implored the ungrateful girl to give me a glass of water, when I was choking—and she refused. What mercy can I have towards her?”

“None,” responded Jack Rily. “But you must enter into farther explanations, old tiger-cat: because at present I’m pretty well in the dark relative to the precise nature of your plans, and the way in which they are to be executed. It’s now four o’clock in the afternoon—and we must settle everything without delay, if it’s to be done to-night.”

“It is for to-night,” said the old woman, emphatically. “My daughter and her husband have taken a house in Pimlico——”

“How many servants?” demanded Jack Rily.

“I cannot exactly answer the question: but I know that there is a French lady’s maid; and I saw an English valet, who had been recommended by the house-agent——”

“Never mind who recommended him,” interrupted the Doctor, impatiently; “he is there—and that’s enough for us. All I care about knowing is how many people we may have to deal with.”

“But the venture must be made at any risk,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “It is of the highest consequence to us to gain possession of the genuine cheque——”

“And put the holder of it out of the way,” added Jack Rily. “Oh! I understand your drift plainly enough: but I wish to see my course clear—because I’d better do the best I can with the notes under existing circumstances, rather than get a bullet through my brain or find myself laid by the heels in Newgate some time between this and to-morrow morning.”

“Certainly—certainly,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer. “Well—upon what do you decide?”

“To risk the business,” answered Jack, starting from his seat. “And now I’ll just go and take a quiet walk down into Pimlico, for the purpose of surveying the premises. Whereabouts is it?”

“Westbourne Place, No.——,” replied Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well—you can meet me again down in that neighbourhood at about midnight,” said the Doctor. “Where shall the place of appointment be?”

“In Sloane Square, if you like,” observed the old woman.

“Good—precisely at midnight. And now be off—because I am going to hide the Bank-notes so that nobody may be able to find them during my absence,” said the Doctor, with a meaning look. “Of course I need hardly tell you that if you are scheming or manoeuvring to get me into a plant down at Pimlico, you’ll never go away alive to make a boast of it.”

“The idea that I should act in such a way, is ridiculous,” returned Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well—there is no harm in giving you the caution, old tiger-cat,” remarked the Doctor, carelessly. “So tramp off—and be punctual to our appointment.”

“I shall not fail,” said the horrible woman, who thereupon took her departure.

How she passed the remainder of that day, we know not. Suffice it to say that the leisure-time which she had for reflection did not induce her to change her mind nor swerve from her purpose: on the contrary, as she entered Sloane Square a few minutes before midnight, it was with a determination to take her share in the awful tragedy which she contemplated—namely, the murder of her own daughter and the Count of Carignano. Bad and depraved as she was, never in her life until this occasion had she thought so calmly and coolly of shedding blood: for if on the previous day she had harboured the design of assassinating Jack Rily, in order to regain possession of the Bank-notes, it was not without a cold shudder, even though there was something like aggravation to inspire the idea. But now she had brought herself—or circumstances had tutored her—to survey with a diabolical tranquillity the hideous, appalling crime which she had in view; and as she walked along, she clutched with savage triumph a clasp-knife that she had purchased during the evening.

Precisely as the clock struck twelve Jack Rily joined her.

“Well, you have not altered your mind?” he said.

“It is rather for me to ask you that question,” was her response.

“Oh, I am resolute enough!” he observed; and through the semi-obscurity of the night she could see his large white teeth flashing hideously between the opening in his lip. “I have taken a good survey of the premises,” he continued, “and know exactly how to proceed. Have you got any weapon, old tiger-cat?”

“This,” she replied, placing the clasp-knife in his hand.

He opened the blade—felt it—closed it again—and, returning the knife to his companion, said, “That will do. But there is one thing that troubles me a little,” he added, after a few moments’ hesitation; “and I’ll be hanged if I can get it off my mind. Yet—perdition seize it!—I am no coward either.”

“What have you to fear, then?” demanded the old woman, hastily.

“Why, to tell you the truth——but come along farther away from the lamps——to tell you the truth, as I was jogging quietly down Sloane Street just now,” continued Rily, glancing furtively around, “some one, coming hastily up from a narrow street on the right-hand side, passed just in front of me. We almost ran against each other, and I caught a glimpse of the fellow’s countenance——”

“Who was he?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, shuddering in anticipation of the reply.

“Vitriol Bob,” was the answer.

“I thought you were going to say so,” exclaimed the old woman. “But perhaps he did not notice you—and even if he did, I suppose you are not afraid that he will attempt any mischief?”

“Whether he noticed me or not, I can’t say,” replied the Doctor; “because the encounter was so abrupt—so sudden—that he was off again in an instant. But if he did, I am well aware that he is capable of anything. However, I don’t mean to let that prey upon my mind, I can tell you.”

“And yet it does seem to have depressed you a little,” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well—I’d rather it shouldn’t have happened—that’s all!” ejaculated the ruffian, forcing himself to assume a gaiety which he did not altogether feel; for, though no coward, yet the incident of his meeting with his sworn foe in the manner described, had troubled him.

Doubtless the man’s mind, contemplating a diabolical crime, was more disposed to superstitious terrors, and to acknowledge the influence of presentiments, than on ordinary occasions: hence the vague uneasiness and undefined apprehensions that had seized upon him.

Mrs. Mortimer caught the dispiriting effects of the encounter which her confederate had experienced with one of the most desperate ruffians in London; and such a chill fell upon her mind, that she was about to propose the abandonment of the scheme, when Jack Rily suddenly exclaimed, “Well thought of! I’ve something in my pocket that will do us good!”

With these words he produced a flask of brandy, which he handed to the old woman, who drank deeply: he then applied it to his own lips, and drained it of its contents.

“Now I feel all right again!” he cried, as he restored the empty bottle to his pocket. “There’s nothing like a drop of the bingo at a crisis of this nature.”

“Nothing!” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assentingly: for she likewise felt all her resolution—or rather hard-heartedness—suddenly revive under the influence of the alcohol.

“Now, then, let us proceed to business,” said Jack. “I have got my own clasp-knife—a darkey28—and a small jimmey,”29 he continued; “and blowed if it shall be my fault, should we fail in the crack30 to-night——”

“And all that is to follow,” added Mrs. Mortimer, to whom the brandy had imparted a ferociousness which made her thirst as it were to drink her own daughter’s blood.

The two miscreants—male and female—now proceeded in silence; and as they entered Westbourne Place a lovely moon broke forth from behind a cloud hitherto dark and menacing.

“This is the house,” said Mrs. Mortimer, when they came within sight of the dwelling where Laura and the Count of Carignano were slumbering in each other’s arms.

“I know it, old gal,” responded Jack Rily. “We must turn into the lane that leads down by the side of the premises. Come along—quick—there’s a person approaching from behind.”

And, followed by the old woman, he darted into the alley which separated the Count of Carignano’s abode from the neighbouring row of houses.

At the back of the villa there was a small garden, the boundary-wall of which was of no great height; and the Doctor, in the survey of the premises which he took during the evening, had made up his mind to effect an entry in the rear of the building.

“All is quiet,” he said, in a low whisper to his companion. “I will climb on to the top of the wall, and then help you up. We will soon make light work of it.”

But scarcely were these words uttered, when a dark shadow appeared at the end of the lane—and in another moment Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer beheld a man hastening towards them.

The old woman instinctively drew close up to her powerful confederate for protection, in case mischief should be intended; and scarcely was this movement effected, when the cause of apprehension was close up to the spot where she and Rily were standing in the deep shade of the wall.

At that instant the moon-beams fell fully upon the man’s countenance; and a cry of horror burst from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer as she recognised her terrible enemy—Vitriol Bob! Simultaneously with that cry, an ejaculation of rage escaped from Jack Rily, who, dashing the old woman away from him, sprang towards the formidable foe.

But ere the sounds of the cry and the ejaculation had died in the air, Vitriol Bob, nimbly eluding the attack of the Doctor, raised above his head something which his right hand grasped; and although the blow was intended for Jack Rily, it fell with an ominous crash full upon the countenance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, striving to escape, but bewildered by terror, was running across the lane, in front of Vitriol Bob, at the instant.

Then—O heavens! what a shriek of agony—what a yell of indescribable anguish broke upon the silence of the night—rending the air with its piercing sound, and raising echoes of even more horrifying wildness throughout the neighbourhood.

Vitriol Bob fled in one direction—Jack Rily in another; and the old woman was abandoned, alike by friend and foe, to her wretched fate!

But—see! the lights gleam in the windows of the very villa which was to have been the scene of a horrible murder: the painful yells, which still continue to beat the air with their agonising vibrations, have aroused the Count of Carignano—aroused also the lovely creature in whose arms he was sleeping. The valet and Rosalie likewise start from their respective couches; and the young Italian nobleman and the man-servant, having hastily thrown on some clothing, descend into the street.

The cries proceed from the lane: they rush to the spot—and there upon the ground they behold a female writhing like a stricken snake, evidently in the most horrible tortures.

What can it mean?

They do not wait to ask the question; but, raising the wretched sufferer from the ground, they bear her into the house—her shrieks and screams lacerating their ears all the time, and her contortions and writhings being so powerful that they can scarcely carry her along.

The neighbours have likewise been alarmed; but none have imitated the example of the generous young Italian, and descended from their bed-rooms to afford assistance. They look forth from their windows—satisfy themselves that aid is at hand—and, believing the uproar to be created by some poor woman in a fit, close the curtains and hasten back to bed again.

In the meantime the Count of Carignano and his valet have borne the writhing—yelling sufferer into the hall; and Laura descends the stairs with a candle in her hand. She has thrown on a dressing-gown, and thrust her naked feet into slippers; and her magnificent hair floats in messy modulations and luxuriant waves over her fine shoulders and her ample bosom.

But scarcely do the rays of the light fall upon the countenance of the suffering wretch, when the Count of Carignano starts back in horror, exclaiming, “Merciful God! do my eyes deceive me?—is it possible? Laura, dearest——”

“’Tis my mother!” cried the young lady, hastening up to the spot where the old woman lay writhing and screaming fearfully upon the mat.

“Ah! that voice!” said the dying Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly desisting from the outpourings of ineffable agony, as the musical tones of her daughter fell upon her ears: “Laura—is it indeed you? Come near—give me your hand—I cannot see you——My God! I am blind—the fiend—the wretch——Come near, I say——Oh! I am dying—and this is the beginning of hell——”

“Mother—mother!” exclaimed Laura, whose heart was touched by witnessing the appalling pain that writhed the form of the old woman.

“Forgive me, my child—forgive me,” gasped the dying wretch: “I came to——But all is growing dark in my mind as well as my eyes——forgive me, I say—forgive me——Oh! God!” she suddenly shrieked forth,—“this—this that I feel now must be Death!”

As these words fell from the old woman’s tongue amidst gasps of agony, convulsions seized upon her—and she expired in the most shocking agonies.