The Friday night, which had been set aside by Clinton for his meeting with Arthur, arrived. It came in "clouds, and storm, and darkness," with darting lightning and crashing thunder, and all the wild fierceness which ever characterizes a thunder-storm in that climate.

Arthur had been nervous and ill at ease all day; a fact which all noticed, but which was attributed to anxiety on Guly's account, who, contrary to expectation, was still unable to be about.

Evening came, the store was closed, and all the clerks were out, save Quirk, Arthur, and Wilkins, who still lingered within, talking of Guly, and commenting on the unusual wildness of the storm. Through the day, Quirk had managed to slip a scrap of writing-paper into Arthur's hand, which had been duly read, and destroyed, and both now waited an opportunity to act upon what it contained.

Quirk quietly lighted a cigar, and, seating himself, turned good-naturedly to Wilkins, remarking:—

"I suppose you know, old boy, that I got my discharge from these premises t'other day."

"Indeed!" returned the head-clerk, coldly, striking a match to light a cigar for himself.

"Yes, cleared out, within a fortnight, bag and baggage; all on account of that deuced little spree we had here the other night. By-the-by, Mr. Wilkins, I believe you have had a finger in this pie. How could you treat a fellow so?"

"I told you I would report you."

"Well, 'twasn't hardly fair, I vum. I didn't do more than the rest, but I suffer all alone. However, I don't bear anybody any ill will, and hope when we part it will be on good terms."

"I hope so, I'm sure."

"I've a bottle of prime old Port left of the other night; what say you to taking a drink this stormy time, to our future good friendship?"

"I've no objections—most certainly."

Quirk went to the other end of the store, and took a bottle and some glasses from under the counter. He filled three of the glasses, and handed one to each of his friends, and kept the other for himself.

"Here's oblivion to the past, and brightness for the future."

Wilkins smiled, nodded, and the glasses were drained to the bottom.

At this moment Quirk caught sight of Jeff, who had just been in to see Guly, but who now stood with his great eyes fixed upon the group before him, with a mixture of wonder and sadness in his glance.

"Ah, Jeff! oughtn't to forget you to-night. Have some?"

"Don't care, massa."

Quirk filled another glass to the brim.

"Now, Jeff, you must give us a toast, or you can't have the wine."

"Guy, massa, who ever heard of a nigga's toastin' white folks," replied Jeff, showing his whole range of ivories.

"Must give us something."

"Well, den, massa, if I must, I must. Here's hopin' you'll never be less de brack man's fren dan now you am."

The negro's toast was drunk with a hearty good-will, Quirk only pausing, thoughtfully, to ask if he spoke in general terms of the colored race, or referred to himself singly; to which Jeff merely said "Yes," leaving the matter as obscure as before.

When his cigar was finished, Quirk buttoned his coat to the throat, and, taking an umbrella, shook hands with Arthur and Wilkins, and proceeded toward the door.

"You might stay, and share Arthur's bed to-night," said Wilkins, calling after him. "It's a dreadful storm to go out in, and he is alone, you know—Guly being in my bed."

"Thank you," returned the other, "not to-night."

"I wish you would," joined in Arthur; "that's a gloomy old room to be alone in, in such a noisy night as this."

"Hope you ain't afraid of spirits," laughed Quirk. "I would really like to stay, but I have an engagement to meet a friend at the St. Louis bar-room to-night, and I ought to have been there half an hour ago. Good-night."

He opened the door, and passed out, while a gust of wind and rain swept in through the opening.

Arthur shuddered. "Really," said he, speaking to Wilkins, "I believe I am nervous to-night; I feel as fidgetty as an old woman; yet I have seen the time when I could glory in such a storm as this, and climb to the summit of old Cro'nest, on the Hudson, in its midst."

"You have been dissipating a little of late, you know," returned the other, patting his shoulder; "that makes a difference. Then, you have, no doubt, been anxious about your brother, and that makes a difference. Perhaps Jeff had better take his bed to your room to-night, and lie there. He will be better than no company, with the lightning and thunder on such a spree about one's ears. What say you?"

"But Jeff is needed here."

"No, he isn't. He only lies behind that door in the capacity of a big watch-dog," returned the other, laughing, "to bark if he hears any one breaking in, and he hasn't had cause to do that since I've been here. Jeff, take your mattress to Master Pratt's room, and sleep there to-night."

Jeff obeyed, glad himself to be near somebody during this fierce battle of the elements; and Arthur told him to go on up stairs with the light, and he would be with him presently.

Leaving Wilkins smoking in the store, Arthur stole softly into Guly's sick chamber. A night-lamp was burning on the table, casting its mellow light faintly through the apartment, and displaying the sufferer's pale features, as he lay asleep, with his bright hair floating back upon his pillow.

Arthur knelt by the bedside, and took one of his brother's burning hands in his, and bowed his head upon it. He uttered no word, heaved no sigh, but knelt motionless and silent—so silent that his heavy heart-throbs were audible. When he raised his head, tears were on his cheeks, and, as he bent to press his lips to Guly's, those tears fell down upon that fair, pale brow, and glittered there like gems.

Dashing away these traces of what he deemed his weakness, Arthur passed out of the room, and shaking hands with Wilkins, as he bade him good-night, mounted the winding stairs, and entered his own chamber.

"Massa Pratt," said Jeff, turning on his mattress, as Arthur entered the room, "you don't think as how your brudder's gwine to die, do you?"

"Die! Heavens, Jeff, no! What put that in your head?"

"Don't know, sah! don' know nuffin' 'bout it."

Arthur slowly undressed, and placing his clothes near the bedside, lay down upon his pillow.

"Jeff, do you ever expect to get to sleep in such a tumult as this?"

"Guy, massa, guess I does. Neber was so sleepy afore in all my life. 'Spect it's dat wine dat makes it; I don't often git sich drinks as dat. Massa Quirk mighty good just on de ebe of lebin de business. Yah! yah!"

In a few minutes Jeff was asleep; and his loud breathing was audible, even above the howling of the storm. Arthur lay still for half an hour, restless, and with ear strained to catch the faintest sound coming up from the store below. But all was still, and he rose up, and dressed himself, throwing over his other garments a cloak, which he wrapped closely about him, as if preparing to breast the weather. He laid his hand on the small door, leading down the steep staircase into the court, and was about to pass forth, when, with a sudden impulse, he dropped the cloak from his shoulders, and opened the door leading down to the store instead. Arthur could not go out upon his mysterious errand, without casting one more look upon his brother's face. Perhaps he felt it might possibly give him strength to resist temptation, or might urge him to forego some premeditated evil; whatever it was that prompted him to seek his side, he obeyed it, and in a moment stood in the door of Wilkins' chamber. The light of the night-lamp revealed the form of the head clerk lying stretched upon his bed, sound asleep, and breathing heavily; one of his strong arms encircled Guly, and his broad breast pillowed the boy's head.

Arthur looked at them earnestly, fearless of their waking, for he had seen (what none of the rest observed) Quirk sprinkle into Wilkins' wine, as also into Jeff's, a few grains of a drug, intended to make their slumbers deep; and Guly, he knew, slept an invalid's sleep, heavy from weakness and exhaustion. After gazing at them for awhile, Arthur stepped to the table, and extinguished the lamp, then drew the door close after him, and groped his way back up stairs. Again he wrapped the cloak about him, drew his cap over his brows, and went down into the court. He paused once more, as he opened the alley-door with his pass-key, and turned his eyes back toward the spot he was leaving. The darkness was impenetrable, but he gazed earnestly back as if all were distinctly visible, then closed the door behind him, and went shudderingly forth into the tempest. He had crossed that threshold for the last time bearing in his breast a crimeless-soul, and he felt it instinctively.

Gaining the street, he hurried on till he had reached the saloon where he had seen Quirk and Clinton the night after the lost bank deposit. He hastily inquired of Quibbles if either of his friends were there, and on being informed that Quirk had just come in, he desired to be shown to his presence, and found him in the same room they had occupied before, smoking and drinking there by himself.

"Come at last, eh, Pratt? All snug?"

"All asleep—Jeff in my room, as you suggested."

"Good! Now for Clint."

"But what was the use of all these preliminaries at the store? I scarcely understand."

"Oh, you're a little springy as yet; after to-night you'll understand more about these things. Clinton will explain everything when we get there. Now, if you're ready, come along."

They went out together, Arthur first swallowing several glasses of wine, for the purpose, as he said, of keeping his spirits up.

The walk to Clinton's house was a long one, and on such a fierce night as this, particularly disagreeable; swollen gutters, slipping pavements, and deluged streets, rendering it next to impossible to keep one's footing.

Arriving, at last, at the door of a small but neat domicile, Quirk rapped, and they were admitted by a small black girl, who showed them into a pleasant little apartment, lighted cheerfully, prettily furnished, and tastefully arranged. A table stood in the centre of the apartment, and Clinton was sitting by it when they entered, reading to a young and pretty woman, who was busily engaged with her needle, and rocking a cradle, containing an infant son, with her foot.

She rose gracefully as Clinton introduced her as his wife, and received his friends with ease and dignity. Arthur felt not a little astonished to find Clinton a husband and a father, and told him as much. He blushed slightly, and replied that every one knew these facts that knew him well, and laughingly advised Arthur if he wished to be happy to become one too.

Mrs. Clinton then rose, and going to the sideboard, set out wine for the guests, and Arthur observed that it was served on a silver salver and in cut crystal—articles scarcely corresponding with the small house, and very pretty, but plain furniture.

"Is the back room lighted?" said Clinton to his wife.

"No, but it shall be, if you wish it."

"I do. My friends have a little business to transact with me."

Arthur noticed that when Clinton said this, his wife looked at him very penetratingly, as if she would read his thoughts, but turned away re-assured by the bright smile he gave her, and lighted the room.

"Now," said Clinton, when they were alone, "let's at once to business. I had intended this night only for planning; but we must plan and work both, to-night, for we may not have such another storm in a month. You've good pluck, eh, Pratt?"

"Same as ever."

"Good. You got my note and fixed the wine, Quirk?"

"Just so."

"And you are sure you're ready, Pratt, to help to carry out the plan I've laid for you?"

"Ready for anything short of murder."

"All right, then, there's no murder in the case, only a nice little game of lock-picking and so on. No backing out now, and beforehand we must all take this oath: that if any one of us is nabbed, and should by any chance suffer the penalty of the law, he shall not implicate any of the others."

"That's fair," said Quirk; "all stand the same chance."

The oath was administered, and each one laid his hand upon the Holy Book, saying: "I swear," "I swear," "I swear."

"Now," said Clinton, "what I propose is this: that we just walk into your boss's store this night, and walk out of it with goods enough to make us rich men. We can do it easy as guns."

Arthur turned pale and remained silent.

"What's the matter, boy," said Clinton, laughing, "you ain't going to play chickenheart, are you?"

"No," said Arthur, ashamed to confess his dislike to the plan, "but why can't you take some other store?"

"Because we havn't the men drugged in any other store, and, in case of detection, we're safer there than any where else."

"How so? I should think the chances in that case would be equal anywhere?"

"Oh, no. I'm somewhat related to the proprietor of your store, and when he found 'twas me, he'd hush the matter up—and let it go," said Clinton, quietly.

"Related to Mr. Delancey! Pray, how nearly?" asked Arthur in astonishment.

"Oh, quite near. But no matter about that now, maybe you'll find it all out one of these days. Another reason for choosing that particular store is, we can get in with less trouble. Look there."

Clinton, as he spoke, flung down upon the table a heavy brass key, which, to his amazement, Arthur saw was the one he had lost on his Carrollton ride.

"How in the world came you by this?"

Clinton laughed—"If you lost it, I must have found it; but no time is to be lost, and if we're all agreed let's go to work."

"All agreed," said Quirk; but Arthur was silent; sitting with his head bent down, as if closely examining the key, but in fact to hide the emotion he knew was visible in his face.

"Well, then," said Clinton, rising and unlocking an armoire which stood in one corner of the room, "here are some bags for us, which I have had prepared expressly. Each of us will take two; and with what else we can carry about our persons, they will be enough. Here, Pratt, are yours. What the devil ails you, man, to look so down?"

"Nothing ails me," replied Arthur, rising and taking the bags, with an effort to look interested and cheerful.

"Well," continued Clinton, "now, my plan is this: all you have got to do is to unlock the door and go in; for Quirk tells me that early this morning he managed to fill the bolt socket in the floor, so that the bolts wouldn't sink; and that he is certain Jeff was too fuddled with the wine he gave him to note the difference. If this was so, you can go in without the slightest difficulty, and as you two know all about the store, which I don't, while you are gathering the goods, I will saw off one of the window shutters, and cut out a pane of glass, so that it will seem the entrance was effected by that means. Here are the implements, you see," said he, holding up a saw and file.

"Aye," said Quirk, "but you'll need a diamond to cut the glass."

"I'll use this," said he, showing the ring on his finger.

"Just as it is?"

"Yes, as good so as any way. Now, the first thing you do after getting in, is to pull out that filling from the bolt sockets if you care to save yourselves, then pitch into the goods. Get the lightest and most valuable—silks, embroideries, rich laces, everything of that kind, but avoid the linens, cloths, and all that, as too heavy, and besides might be detected by the stamp. Lock and bolt the door after you when you go in, and you, Pratt, pocket the key; for no doubt it will be asked for to-morrow. I'll have a place ready for you to get out. And now let's be off—here are dark lanterns for you."

"But the watchman," suggested Arthur.

"Oh, never fear a watchman such a night as this; he's snugly asleep somewhere, no doubt—and if he should come too near, this would 'his quietus make,'" said Clinton, displaying a glittering dagger.

Arthur shuddered visibly.

"You promised no murder, Mr. Clinton."

"And I'll endeavor to keep that promise, Mr. Pratt," laughed Clinton. "Now let's be going."

They went out without again seeing Clinton's wife.

The storm swept on unabated, and Quirk and Clinton, arm-in-arm, started on ahead, while Arthur, reluctant, and remorseful, but ashamed to betray his feelings, followed in their footsteps, the suffering victim of his own and another's pride.

The store was reached. The noise of the tempest rendered much caution unnecessary, for thunder, wind and rain were so loudly uniting their forces that almost any noise would but have seemed the natural effect of their fury. But it was with extreme caution that Arthur applied the key to the lock, opened the door and permitted Quirk to enter. The latter instantly stepped to the window, and assisted Clinton in taking down a shutter, and the last named gentleman, with file and saw, soon gave it the appearance of having been taken down by such instruments alone from the outside. He then proceeded to cut out one of the large panes of glass, while Quirk and Arthur, having opened the bolt sockets and fastened the door with lock and bolt, proceeded to collect the goods.

Suddenly Arthur stopped, and turning to Quirk, whispered faintly: "I can't go on. Oh, this is awful, awful! Think of my poor brother, sick, maybe dying, in that room yonder, and I engaged thus! Oh! I never, never can go on!"

"Furies!" muttered Quirk, between his teeth, "this is a pretty time for such thoughts! The brat in yonder is doing well enough, I'll be bound; but if you give him time to come out here and see you, he would die for certain. You may just as well yell out and give us all up to the police as to stop now—a nice body you are to take revenge."

That one last word acted as a spur, and Arthur again resumed the packing of the bags, and Quirk coming up to him, said, softly:—

"Now you're a man again—ain't ashamed of you now. Here's a mask for you, tie it on. I don't fear detection, but it won't do any harm to wear it. I've got one for myself."

Arthur obeyed mechanically, and tied the mask over his features and went on with his work. Boxes were rifled, drawers were emptied and shelves left vacant. The bags were filled. Everything light and valuable that could be stowed away in them had been, and Quirk and Arthur passed them up into the window for Clinton to set into the street. He lifted them all out, and wrapped them in oil cloth to prevent the goods from being damaged by the rain. He placed them in a pile beneath the window arch, so that they might be easily lifted away even by two strong pair of arms, and left them there, certain that the raging storm would prevent all chance of discovery. Quirk had crept out also, through the open pane, after having placed the goods in the window, and now seated himself upon the pile and wiped his brow, like one wearied with a long fatiguing task.

Arthur had wrapped his cloak around him preparing to leave, when Clinton again made his appearance at the window and vaulted into the store.

"I want to see if you have made a clean sweep," said he, taking Arthur's lantern from his hand, and passing lightly up through the store with a practised tread and running his eye eagerly over the shelves. "Velvets," said he, suddenly pausing to read the lable of a large box. "Why the devil didn't you get them?" and forthwith he drew it down and turned its rich contents out into an immense bandanna handkerchief which he drew from his breast.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake don't stop for them!" whispered Arthur, nervously, "let's be gone!"

"Zounds, man! here's a little fortune in itself," returned the other, carefully tying them up. "I'd be a fool to leave these."

Neither saw, so intent were they on what they were doing, the door of Wilkins' room swing slowly open, and a white-robed figure, bearing a night-lamp, glide ghost-like toward them. So feeble was the light it held, it scarcely served to reveal the way, and one trembling foot struck against a store stool, making sufficient noise to attract the attention of the robbers. They both turned suddenly, the light of their lantern fell that way, and they stood face to face with Guly.

In an instant Clinton's hand was on his dagger; it rose glittering high in air, and aimed at Guly's heart, descended with a fearful plunge toward that pure young breast.

"Murderer!" cried a voice behind him, and a counter blow from a well directed hand, sent the instrument of death clattering upon the floor.

At the sound of that voice, though it had come from beneath a mask, Guly uttered a cry of anguish a thousand times more heart-rending than would have been a death cry, and sank senseless upon the floor, the lamp going out in its fall.

Trembling with horror, Arthur felt himself pushed forward by Clinton's strong hand in wild haste to the window. Self-preservation was strong within him, he bolted through, Clinton followed, and they once more stood in the street.

"We'll take care of the bags," whispered Clinton, hurriedly, to Arthur; "you fly up that alley, get you to bed, and take care of yourself, you'll only hinder us if you go along—pull off your boots."

Loaded with their booty, Clinton and Quirk passed away like shadows in the stormy darkness, and bewildered, yet aware of the stern necessity for obeying Clinton's advice, Arthur drew off his boots and darted like light up the alley, noiselessly unlocked the small door, fastened it, and once more breathed in his own room. Quick as thought he rinsed the mud from his boots in some water he knew where to find, turned the India rubber cloak wrong side out and hung it on the peg whence he had taken it, undressed, all in that to him fearful darkness, and once more sought his pillow, without causing a break in the loud snoring of Jeff who still slumbered on his mattress, unconscious of the trouble soon to fall on his devoted head.

Clasping his hands upon his wildly beating heart, Arthur lay still to listen for any sound to indicate that life had returned to Guly, or that Wilkins had awakened. For the first time, he bethought him of his mask, and raising his hand to his face found it had fallen off, probably, he concluded, in his hurried flight through the window.