In order to properly connect the various parts of our story in proper places, we are forced to turn backward to the night first preceding the day on which occurred the events narrated in the preceding chapter.

We wish to conduct the reader to a large and handsome house situated on the outskirts of Clarkville, the town where Charley Gorse belonged.

This house, the most pretentious in that prosperous town, belonged to a gentleman named Radcliffe, a retired merchant.

Here Mr. Radcliffe resided with his only son Ralph, a boy of fifteen.

Mr. Radcliffe was a perfect invalid, and was not expected to live long.

Many said that he sorrowed for the wife he had buried two years before.

Radcliffe was reputed to be a man of great wealth, and as he lived in first-class style for that locality, there seemed grounds for belief in his riches.

Midnight had descended on the sleeping village, and all were hushed in slumber.

Inside the mansion none heard the clock strike twelve but the invalid owner of the estate.

As the last peals of the silver hammer died away, he arose from his chair in the study, and was about to open the door leading into his bedroom, when a hand was placed on his shoulder.

He stopped short, and with more surprise than alarm turned to see who it was, for the moment believing that it might be his son, who had stolen into the room on tiptoe.

He was mistaken.

He found himself face to face with a man of middle age, powerfully built, heavily bearded, and furnished with a pair of dark, restless eyes, that were ever flashing about him, as if seeking a victim.

He looked like a tough customer, in his rough dress of homespun material, and the host grew somewhat alarmed when he saw a knife half hidden in the left hand of this midnight visitor.

“Who are you?” he faltered, sinking down upon a chair and looking up dubiously at the man before him. “What do you want of me?”

“Much,” said the visitor, in the most easy and off-hand style. “That’s right; sit down and take it easy. I’ve been waiting some time to see you.”

And so saying, he drew up a chair quite close to the invalid, and seated himself with the utmost composure.

“Suppose you don’t know me?” said this cool card. “Very likely, as you’ve not seen me in many years. Used to know me, however. Very kind of me to resume the acquaintance. Well, I’ve come to have a talk with you concerning certain matters.”

“Who are you?” demanded Radcliffe, with some spirit.

“Call me—let’s see—Hardscrabble; yes, that is a good enough name. You can call me Hardscrabble, principally because it’s not my name; and when we conclude our little business, I’ll tell you who I am.”

“Well, sir,” said Radcliffe, inquiringly, “is this the way you pay visits?”

“Oh, cut it!” impatiently interrupted the so-called Hardscrabble. “I’m not ceremonious at all. Are you ready to talk?”

“Yes, go on,” said Radcliffe, sinking back in his chair.

He did not care about this interview in the least; but then what could he do about it, when it was requested by a powerful, ruffianly-looking fellow, who could have crushed him without need to have recourse to the weapon in his hand?

“Well, sir,” said Hardscrabble, fixing his bright eyes upon him, “I wish to know whether you have made a will?”

Radcliffe did not answer, but looked at him doubtfully.

“Oh, you might as well talk out,” said this rascally-looking Hardscrabble, “for if you don’t you will force me to bind and gag you, and then go through your private desks and drawers. It would only be natural for an invalid to make a will.”

“Well, I have made one,” slowly returned Radcliffe, who began to feel that he was in the power of an unscrupulous villain, who would not hesitate to stab him if much provoked.

“And how have you left your property?” was the next question.

“What’s that to do with——” began the invalid, but a slight motion of Hardscrabble’s hand, the one containing the poniard, was enough to recall him to his senses, and remind him that indignation was not a very good article just then.

“Answer,” sternly said the visitor.

“I have left the bulk of my property to my son and heir, my Ralph,” answered the old man; “and he will inherit everything, with the exception of a few unimportant legacies left to old servants and one or two friends. Tell me what interest you have in the matter.”

“A very great one,” said the other. “You have no brothers?”

“I have not.”

“Nor sisters?”

“Not one.”

“Nor any near relatives to step in and get your property if your son should die suddenly?”

“I have no relations living to my knowledge, the last one dying some two or three years ago in California. He was stabbed in some drunken quarrel.”

“What was his name?” asked Hardscrabble, an odd smile playing over his lips.

“James Van Dorn,” said Radcliffe. “He was my first cousin, and the only relative left me for many years.”

Hardscrabble’s hand went up to his face with an adroit motion, and he removed the heavy beard.

It made him look ten years younger, but did not take the dare-devil look from his face.

“Don’t you know me?” he said.

Radcliffe peered closely at him, and then said slowly:

“Yes, you are Van Dorn.”

“Just so, I am James Van Dorn,” said the visitor, and then put the poniard in his pocket with a pleasant laugh. “Only did this as a joke, you know. How much are you going to leave me in your will, Cousin Radcliffe, now that you know I’m alive?”

The question was proper enough, but the tone was a threat.

“Will you divide the estate with myself as half heir?” he asked, peering close into the invalid’s face with those wicked dark eyes. “Speak.”

“I will not,” firmly said Radcliffe, trying to rise from his seat. “You can never touch one cent of my money.”

“You lie!” savagely said Van Dorn, and with a quick motion he caught poor Radcliffe by the throat with one hand as he drew the poniard with the other. “You lie, for I intend to handle every cent of your money. I’m going to take your life for two reasons; one is because you married the only girl I ever thought a straw about, and the other reason is because you made me as black to her as a man could be made. Die!”

The poniard flashed in the light, the invalid writhed in a vain effort to get away from the ruffian’s clutch, and the blade descended and was sheathed in Radcliffe’s heart.

The murderer laid the body down, and after spurning it with his foot, picked up the lamp from the table and walked softly out of the room.

He traversed the hallway and reached the door of another room; this he entered with a cat-like tread, and set the lamp down while he turned towards the bed that stood at the side of the room.

There half reclining was a youth of about fifteen, who had been aroused from his slumbers by the light.

Van Dorn strode forward, and the bloody knife flashed before the eyes of the half awakened boy.

“Silence,” cautioned Van Dorn, with a look of menace, “for if you make any outcry, utter one sound above a whisper, I’ll not hesitate for a moment about driving this poniard into your heart!”