Leicester went to the Astor House after his marriage, for though he had accepted an invitation to Mrs. Gordon's fancy ball, which was turning the fashionable world half crazy, matters more important demanded his attention. Premeditating a crime which might bring its penalty directly upon his own person, he had made arrangements to evade all possible chance of this result, by embarking at once for Europe with his falsely married bride. In order to prepare funds for this purpose, the project for which Robert Otis had been so long in training, had been that day put in action. The old copy-book, with its mass of evidence, was, as he supposed, safe in Robert's apartment. The check, forged with marvellous accuracy, which we have seen placed in his letter case, passed that morning into the hands of his premeditated victim, and at night the youth was to meet him with the money. Thus everything seemed secure. True, his own hands had signed the check, but Robert had presented it at the bank, he would draw the money. When the fraud became known, his premises would be searched, and there was the old copy-book bearing proofs of such practice in penmanship as would condemn any one. Over and over again might the very signature of that forged check be found in the pages of this book, on scraps of loose paper, and even on other checks bearing the same imprint, and on the same paper. With proof so strong against the youth, how was suspicion to reach Leicester? Would the simple word of an accused lad be taken? And what other evidence existed? None—none. It was a fiendishly woven plot, and at every point seemed faultless. Still Leicester was ill at ease. The consciousness that the act of this day had placed him within possible reach of the law, was unpleasant to a man in whom prudence almost took the place of conscience. The hour had arrived, but Robert was not at Leicester's chamber when he returned. This made the evil-doer anxious and restless. He walked the room, he leaned from the window and looked out upon the crowd below. He drank off glass after glass of wine, and for once suffered all the fierce tortures of dread and suspense which he had so ruthlessly inflicted on others.

At this time Robert Otis was in the building, waiting for Jacob Strong. That strange personage came at last, but more agitated than Robert had ever seen him. Well he might be; an hour before he had left Leicester's wretched bride but half conscious of her misery, and making heart-rending struggles to disbelieve the wrong that had been practised upon her. In an hour more he was to conduct her where she would learn all the sorrow of her destiny. Jacob had a feeling heart, and these thoughts gave him more pain than any one would have deemed possible.

"Here is the money; go down at once and give it to him; I heard his step in the chamber," he said, addressing Robert. "The count is correct, I drew it myself from the bank this morning."

"Tell me, is this money yours?" questioned the youth, "I would do nothing in the dark."

"You are right, boy; no, the money is not mine, I am not worth half the sum. I have no time for a long story, but there is one—a lady, rich beyond anything you ever dreamed of—who takes a deep interest in this bad man."

"What, Florence—Miss Craft?" exclaimed Robert.

"No, an older and still more noble victim. I had but to tell her the money would be used for him, and, behold, ten thousand dollars—the sum he thought enough to pay for your eternal ruin. My poor nephew!"

"Nephew, did you say, nephew, Jacob?"

"Yes, call me Jacob—Jacob Strong—Uncle Jacob—call me anything you like, for I have loved you, I have tried you—kiss me! kiss me! I haven't had you in my arms since you were a baby—and I want something to warm my heart. I never thought it could ache as it has to-night."

"Uncle Jacob—my mother's only brother—I do not understand it, but to know this is enough!"

The youth flung himself upon Jacob's bosom, and for a moment was almost crushed in those huge arms.

"Now that has done me lots of good!" exclaimed the uncle, brushing a tear from his eyes with the cuff of his coat, a school-boy habit that came back with the first powerful home feeling. "Now go down and feed the serpent with this money. You won't be afraid to mind me now."

"No, if you were to order me to jump out of the window I would do it."

"You might, you might, for I would be at the bottom to catch you in my arms! Here is the money, I will be in the drawing-room as a witness: it won't be the first time, I can tell you."

Leicester started and turned pale, even to his lips, as Robert entered his chamber, for a sort of nervous dread possessed him; and in order to escape from this, his anxiety to obtain means of leaving the country became intense. He looked keenly at Robert, but waited for him to speak. The youth was also pale, but resolute and self-possessed.

"The bank was closed before I got there," he said, in a quiet, business tone, placing a small leathern box on the table, and unlocking it, "but I found a person who was willing to negotiate the check. He will not want the money at once, and so it saves him the trouble of making a deposit."

Leicester could with difficulty suppress the exclamation of relief that sprang to his lips, as Robert opened the box, revealing it half full of gold; but remembering that any exhibition of pleasure would be out of place, he observed, with apparent composure—

"You have counted it, I suppose? Were you obliged to exchange bills with any of the brokers, as I directed, to get the gold?"

"No, it was paid as you see it," answered the youth, moving toward the door; for his heart so rose against the man, that he could not force himself to endure the scene a moment longer than was necessary.

"Stay, take the box with you," said Leicester, pouring the gold into a drawer of his desk; "I will not rob you of that."

Robert understood the whole; a faint smile curved his lip, and taking the box, he went out.

"No evidence—nothing but pure gold," muttered Leicester, exultingly, as he closed the drawer. "It is well for you, my young friend, that the holder of that precious document does not wish to present his check at once. Liberty is sweet to the young, and this secures a few more days of its enjoyment for you—and for me! Ah, there everything happens most fortunately. Why, a good steamer will put us half over the Atlantic before this little mistake is suspected."

Leicester was a changed man after this; his spirits rose with unnatural exhilaration.

"Now for this grand ball," he said aloud, surveying his fine person in the glass. "Surely a man's wedding garments ought to be fancy dress enough. Another pair of gloves, though. This comes of temptation. I must finger the gold, forsooth."

The ruthless man smiled, and muttered these broken fragments of thought, as he took off the scarcely soiled gloves, and replaced them with a pair still more spotlessly white. He was a long time fitting them on his hand. He fastidiously rearranged other portions of his dress. All sense of the great fraud, that ought to have borne his soul to the earth, had left him when the gold appeared. You could see, by his broken words, how completely lighter fancies had replaced the black deed.

"This Mrs. Gordon—I wonder if she really is the creature they represent her to be. If it were not for this voyage to Europe, now, one might—no, no, there is no chance now; but I'll have a sight at her." Thus muttering and smiling, Leicester left the hotel.

The evening was very beautiful, and Leicester always loved to enter a fashionable drawing-room after the guests had assembled. He reflected that a quiet walk would bring him to Mrs. Gordon's mansion about the time he thought most desirable, and sauntered on, resolved, at any rate, not to reach his destination too early. But sometimes he fell into thought, and then his pace became unconsciously hurried. He reached the upper part of the city earlier than he had intended, and had taken out his watch before a lighted window, to convince himself of the time, when a timid voice addressed him—

"Sir, will you please tell me the name of this street?"

He turned, and saw the little girl whom he had forced to become a witness to his marriage. She shrunk back, terrified, on recognizing him.

"I did not know—I did not mean it," she faltered out.

"What, have you lost your way?" said Leicester, in a voice that made her shiver, though it was low and sweet enough.

"Yes, sir, but I can find it!"

"Where do you live?—oh, I remember. Well, as I have time enough, what if I walk a little out of my way, and see that nothing harms you?"

"No, no—the trouble!"

"Never mind the trouble. You shall show me where you live, pretty one; then I shall be certain where to find you again."

Still Julia hesitated.

"Besides," said Leicester, taking out his purse, "you forget, I have not paid for robbing your basket of all those pretty flowers."

"No!" answered the child, now quite resolutely. "I am paid. The poor young lady is welcome to them."

Leicester laughed. "The poor young lady!—my own pretty bride! Well, I like that."

Julia walked on. She hoped that he would forget his object, or only intended to frighten her. But he kept by her side, and was really amused by the terror inflicted on the child. He had half an hour's time on his hand—how could he kill it more pleasantly? Besides, he really was anxious to know with certainty where the young creature lived. She was one of his witnesses. She had, in a degree, become connected with his fate. Above all, she was terrified to death, and like Nero, Leicester would have amused himself with torturing flies, if no larger or fiercer animal presented itself. His evil longing to give pain was insatiable as the Roman tyrant's, and more cruel; for while Nero contented himself with physical agony, Leicester appeased his craving spirit with nothing but keen mental feeling. The Roman emperor would sometimes content himself with a fiddle; but the music that Leicester loved best was the wail of sensitive heart-strings.

"I live here," said Julia, stopping short, before a low, old house, in a close side street, breathless with the efforts she had made to escape her tormentor. "Do not go any farther, Grandpa never likes to see strangers."

"Go on—go on," answered Leicester, in a tone that was jeeringly good-natured; "grandpa will be delighted."

Julia ran desperately down the area steps. She longed to close the basement door after her and hold it against the intruder, but as this idea flashed across her mind, Leicester stood by her side in the dark hall. She ran forward and opened the door of that poor basement room which was her home. Still he kept by her side. The basement was full of that dusky gloom which a handful of embers had power to shed through the darkness; for the old people, whose outlines were faintly seen upon the hearth, were still too poor for a prodigal waste of light when no work was to be done by it.

"Is it you, darling, and so out of breath?" said the voice of an old man, who rose and began to grope with his hand upon the mantel-piece. "What kept you so long? poor grandma has been in a terrible way about it." While he spoke, the grating of a match that would not readily ignite, was heard against the chimney piece.

"The gentleman, grandpa—here is a gentleman. He would come!" cried the child, artlessly.

This seemed to startle the old man. The match would not kindle; he stooped down and touched it to a live ember; as he rose again the pale blue flames fell upon the face of his wife, and rose to his own features. The illumination was but for a moment—then the wick began to fuse slowly into flame, but it was nearly half a minute before the miserable candle gave out its full complement of light. The old man turned toward the open door, shading the candle with his hand.

"Where, child? I see no gentleman."

Julia looked around. A moment before, Leicester had stood at her side. "He is gone—he is gone," she exclaimed, springing forward. "Oh, grandma—oh, grandpa, how he did frighten me; it was the man I saw on the wharf, that day!"