It was a triumphant expression that fell from the lips of the disguised Barkswell as he saw his enemy plunge headlong into the gulf of boiling waters.

Making his way to the edge of the water the villain gazed long and earnestly at the seething foam, but no sign of the body of his rival was to be seen. The night was extremely dark, and this might have prevented his seeing the corpse.

"Well, there's no use standing here," muttered the man. "I am satisfied that the body of August Bordine'll be found water-logged some day, and that will end the hunt for the assassin of Victoria Vane. It is just as well, and will give me the better chance to walk into the affections of Miss Alstine. I hear that her father will soon return. I must complete the work by a marriage before that. It was a confounded mean affair, that meeting in the garden. I suppose it'll require a good deal of shrewd lying to convince Rose that that woman was not my wife."

Then the villain walked back to the little shanty.

A light still burned within.

Barkswell paused at the door.

On the floor sat Perry Jounce, wiping the blood from his face with a dirty handkerchief.

"Well, Perry, that came mighty near proving a finisher for you," said.
Mr. Barkswell with a provoking smile.

"Wal, I should remark. And you'd a ben glad on't. I ain't goin' ter die yet awhile, pardner. Do you know why?"

The ex-tramp seemed cool enough under the circumstances.

"Explain, Perry."

"I'm goin' to live to see you hang."

"Now, now, old boy, that's unkind."

"Jest the same it's true."

"I really hope not."

"I had my fortune told once."

"Indeed."

"The dumdest lookin' old critter in York told it."

"Well?"

"She gin me a good yarn, one that I'm thinkin's going to come true."

"Why do you think so? I supposed you were above superstition, Mr.
Jounce."

"So I be, but sence a part of the prophecy has come true, why shouldn't the rest?"

"Sure enough."

"You agree with me there?"

"Certainly."

"Then I'll tell you the rest on't, though its sometimes made my blood run cold when I think on't," proceeded the tramp, looking up into the face of his companion, with blood-stained countenance, and eyes that were sodden with pain and passion. He looked like some prisoner of state doomed to the martyr's stake, as he sat there in the dim light and talked in a solemn monotone that was weird and unnatural.

"The old witch said I was to meet with many misfortunes, pass a dreadful crisis, and then come out with flying colors.

"But I'm a gittin' ahead of my story. My sister—I had but one—was to make a mismatch with a gambler and outlaw. He was to cause her and me a heap o' trouble. Finally the husban' was ter plot ter put his wife outen the way so't he could git another gal with a big fortune."

"Nonsense."

"Don't interrupt me," growled the tramp. "I'm jest a tellin' what the fortune-teller said; 'tain't none o' my gammon."

"Go on."

A smile curled the lip of Barkswell.

"Wal, thar ain't a half more to tell. This chap, my sister's husban', was wishin' to get rid of his wife, but in makin' the attempt he ruined himself, and I was ter see the chap hung fur the murder."

"Then he does succeed."

The keen eyes of Barkswell regarded the man before him fixedly, penetratingly.

"No!" hissed the tramp.

"Men do not hang for attempting murder."

"Don't they? Pardner, let me tell you that you won't live arter you attempt to murder Iris."

"What do you mean?"

"I know ye, Andy Barkswell—know what yer scheming brain hez concocted. Not content wi' puttin' poor Vict'ry Vane out o' the world, you hev planned ter kill my sister, yer true and lawful wife. I'll watch ye thar, hossfly—"

"Scoundrel!"

With the exclamation, Barkswell leaped with the fury of a tiger at the throat of the stalwart tramp.

The hour had come for a complete triumph or none.

"Murder!"

This was the cry that escaped the lips of the wounded tramp.

Well might he give utterance to the cry.

There was murder gleaming in the lurid eyes of the villain, Barkswell.

Although Perry Jounce was weak from the effects of the shot that had plowed a furrow through his scalp, his assailant did not permit him to have a fair show.

The tramp had been very indiscreet in telling what he did to his wicked brother-in-law.

"Mercy!" finally gasped Jounce, when he found that he had not strength sufficient to combat the man who was at his throat with murderous intent.

"You shall not live to thwart me, Perry Jounce," hissed Barkswell, as he pressed his companion in crime to the floor, and crushed his knee down upon his breast.

"Mercy!" again gasped Jounce.

"No. You would grant none to me. It would not be safe for me to permit you to live."

"But, hasn't I did my duty by you, pardner? Ef't hadn't been fur me Sile
Keene wouldn't a went under," uttered the helpless tramp, pleadingly.

There was no mercy in the heart of Andrew Barkswell, however. Jounce knew too much and was disposed to be dangerous, so he did not scruple to put him out of the way.

"Not a word, scoundrel," growled Barkswell, and with the words he drew a clasp knife from an inner pocket.

Again the fallen wretch gasped for mercy.

"You butted against the wrong man, Perry Jounce," muttered Barkswell, "when you attempted to frighten me from my plans. What is your life to me? No more than his, than that woman's. You must die."

The point of the knife touched the heaving bosom of the tramp, above the heart.

"Mercy! Spare me, brother—!"

The words were cut short by a quick movement on the part of Barkswell. He had sent the knife to the hilt in the bosom of the tramp.

"There, that ends your career," and with the words the young villain came to his feet.

He stood back with folded arms and watched the dying convulsions of his victim.

Soon the huge form lay quiet, the strong limbs stiffened in death.

A smile played on the features of Barkswell. Nevertheless his face was pale and drawn, and his breath came in short, hot gasps. It was no ordinary thing to take the life of a human being, much less to perpetrate the deed in cold blood.

"Now then the body must be disposed of," muttered Barkswell. "I cannot permit it to lay here."

He moved about and lifted a small trap in the floor. Through this he tumbled the body, and taking the candle, towered himself into a small, damp cellar.

It was a gloomy place.

The murderer must needs labor here for a time, however.

The ground was soft, and procuring a barrel-stave, the homicide went at the labor of digging a grave for his victim.

This work consumed some time. It was accomplished at length, however, and the body of the tramp tumbled in.

Slowly the man heaped the loose sand above the breast of his victim. When it was level full he stamped it down with his feet, and then heaped on more of the dirt.

His light sputtered and grew dim, threatening to go out.

It was not a pleasant thought, the one of being left alone in the dark there, with the blood of his victim trickling through the floor upon him.

"Mercy! what a dismal place. I must get out of this instanter, and—what was that?"

The sound of a step creaking on the floor above!

An awful horror took complete possession of Barkswell at that moment. He dared not look up at the opening through which he had passed, fearing, he knew not what.

His first thought was to extinguish the light.

He snatched it from the wall, and then, in spite of his terror, he cast his eyes upward. A face, white and ghostly, peered down upon him, a pair of flaming eyes burning into his very soul. With a wild cry Barkswell flung down the light, and fell fainting across the grave of his murdered victim.