The malevolent glance with which D’Almayne favoured Kate passed away in a moment, and was succeeded by his usual expression of quiet, contemptuous sarcasm.

“If you choose thus to resent the warmth of expression into which my sympathy for your trials has betrayed me,” he said, “at the same time that you inform Mr. Crane of my delinquencies, pray tell him of the attentions which you have accepted from me, as well as of the one you reject. Tell him of the scroll wrapped round the rose-stalk, asking a private interview, which you instantly granted; tell him of the ostensible visits to the portrait-painter, undertaken to conceal the secret expedition to Mrs. Leonard; tell him that this expedition was made in a carriage hired by me to convey you to meet me by appointment at a house in an obscure quarter of London; and ask him, as a man of the world, whether he imagines you went there simply out of pure benevolence, and whether that benevolence to the wife of a man whom he supposes to have defrauded him, meets with his approval; or rather, I will ask him all this when he applies to me for an explanation of my conduct.” He paused, then perceiving from Kate’s look of embarrassment and annoyance that she recognized and was disconcerted by the force of his remarks, he continued: “You now see the absurdity, as well as the danger, of threatening me. Were Mr. Crane to break with me to-morrow, it would only be the loss of a dull acquaintance—”

“Indeed!” interrupted Kate, with quiet but cutting irony “I should rather have compared it to the fact of your banker failing.”

D’Almayne’s cheeks grew pale, and his lips quivered with suppressed anger, but he continued as if she had not spoken:—

“His vengeance does not greatly alarm me. A man who can snuff a candle with a bullet at twelve paces need not fear an old gentleman!”—(he sneered as he pronounced the word)—“who probably never saw a pistol levelled in his life, and would not easily be brought to face one.” Finding that Kate made no reply, he resumed in a more conciliatory tone: “I think your quick intelligence has by this time shown you the folly of quarrelling with me; let there be truce between us. I will own that carried away by my feelings, I used language in which perhaps I was scarcely warranted; but you must remember that the blood of sunny France sparkles through my veins—that one of my parents sprang from a race, who (unlike you cold and cautious islanders), when they feel strongly, speak with warmth and ardour; and now say, is it to be peace or war between us?”

“I perceive that by my own imprudence, springing not so much from a misconception of your true character, as from a desire not to act from the dictates of what I strove to convince myself was an unfounded prejudice against you, I have so far placed myself in your power that I cannot in a moment judge whether I shall be doing right or wrong by informing my husband of your conduct towards me; but of two things be sure, first, that whatever I decide to be right, I will do; secondly, that neither your threats nor your sophistries will turn me from my purpose; for the rest, after what has occurred to-day, there can be no farther—friendship I will not call it, for it never was so—but alliance between us. I now know you, sir! and that is enough.”

Again the evil look flashed across D’Almayne’s handsome features, but so transient was it that even Kate failed to perceive it. D’Almayne’s quick wit showed him that he had already gained an advantage, which, if he could follow it up, would go far to retrieve the false, or as he considered it premature, step he had taken. If he could induce Kate to conceal the declaration he had made her, the very fact of her having done so would place her still more in his power, his schemes in regard to Mr. Crane might yet be prosecuted; and so confident was he in his own resources, that he even believed he might gain from Kate’s fears that which he began to doubt whether he should obtain from her affection. So assuming the manner of a good man suffering injustice meekly, he rose to depart, saying—

“You are now angry, and unable to regard the matter in its true light. You have confessed you are prejudiced against me, but I know you well enough to feel sure of justice at your hands; nor shall I allow this painful misunderstanding between us to cause any relaxation, on my part, of such efforts as I may be able to make towards freeing your brother from his embarrassments—do not interrupt me,” he continued, seeing Kate was about indignantly to refuse his aid, “I know what you would say—how, still mistrusting me and misinterpreting my motives, you would reject my assistance—and I would gladly save myself the pain of hearing from your lips bitter words, which at some future time you would repent having uttered. I will now leave you, nor shall I again intrude upon you until I have won, at least, your forgiveness.”

D’Almayne was an excellent actor, and as he pronounced the concluding words of the last sentence, his voice trembled with so good an imitation of the pathos of real emotion, that Kate actually glanced towards him to ascertain whether the expression of his face confirmed the idea. Unwilling, however, to weaken the effect he trusted his words had produced, he turned and quitted the room, without having afforded her the opportunity she sought for.

Mr. Crane did not return home that day, being summoned by telegraph to Liverpool,—a merchant there, who was concerned with him in the speculation for which they had chartered the Bundelcundah, East Indiaman, having, on hearing of its loss, blown out his brains. Thus Kate had no opportunity of revealing to her husband D’Almayne’s misdeeds. As soon as she found Mr. Crane had left town, she sent to her brother, intending to warn him against accepting D’Almayne’s offers of assistance, but her messenger brought back her missive, with the announcement that Mr. Marsden had quitted his lodgings. Early the next morning she received the following note:—

“Dear Kate,—You need be under no farther uneasiness on my account. My difficulties are at an end, and a career far better suited to me than the drudgery of a counting-house is afforded me. I am not at liberty to inform you to whom I am indebted for this unhoped-for assistance; but I have indeed met with a true friend in my distress, towards whom I, and all who care for my welfare, must ever feel the deepest gratitude. I am bound by an express stipulation not to reveal the name of the benefactor who has so generously come forward to assist me, even to you; but, believe me, I am not deceived this time. I long to tell you all, but my lips are sealed. I will write to my mother when I can explain more fully my future prospects. Farewell, dear Kate, my faith in human nature is restored; this is not one of the least obligations I owe to my noble-hearted friend.

“Ever yours,

“Fred Marsden.”