rue light, and his web would all be brushed away.
What he required was a scandal; a slander so well sustained, that Lady
Bearwarden's character should never recover it, and for such a purpose
nothing seemed so efficacious as a duel, of which she should be the
cause. He imagined also, in his inexperience, like the immortal Mr.
Winkle, that these encounters were usually bloodless, and mere,
matters of form.

"You're resolved, I suppose," said Tom. "I needn't point out to you, my
lord, that such a course shuts every door to reconciliation--precludes
every possibility of things coming right in future. It's a strong
measure--a very strong measure--and you really mean to carry it
through?"

"I've made up my mind to shoot him," answered the other doggedly.
"What's the use of jawing about it? These things should be done at
once, my good fellow. If we have to go abroad, we'll start to-morrow
night."

"I'd better try and hunt him up without delay," said Tom. "It's easier
to find a fellow now than in the middle of the season, but I might not
hit upon him to-night, nevertheless."

Lord Bearwarden looked at his watch. "Try his club," said he. "If he
dines there, it's about the time. They'll know his address at any
rate, and if you look sharp you might catch him at home dressing for
dinner. I'll wait here and we'll have a mutton-chop when you come in.
Stick to him, Tom. Don't let him back out. It would have saved a deal
of trouble," added his lordship, while the other hurried off, "if I
could have caught that cab to-day. She'd have been frightened, though,
and upset. Better as it is, perhaps, after all."

Mr. Ryfe did not suffer the wheels of his chariot to tarry, nor the
grass to grow beneath his feet. Very few minutes elapsed before he
found himself waiting in the strangers' room of a club much affected
by Dick Stanmore, comforted with a hall-porter's assurance that the
gentleman he sought had ordered dinner, and could not fail to arrive
almost immediately. He had scarcely taken up the evening paper when
Mr. Stanmore came in.

Anything less like a conscience-stricken Lothario, burdened with the
guilt of another man's wife, can scarcely be imagined. Dick's eye
was bright, his cheek blooming, his countenance radiant with health,
happiness, and the light from within that is kindled by a good
conscience and a loving heart. He came up to Ryfe with a merry
greeting on his lips, but stopped short, marking the gravity of that
gent