Richard Venner drew the charge of a rifle, and put the gun back among the
fowling-pieces, swearing that a leather halter was worth a dozen of it.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE PERILOUS HOUR.

Up to this time Dick Venner had not decided on the particular mode and
the precise period of relieving himself from the unwarrantable
interference which threatened to defeat his plans. The luxury of feeling
that he had his man in his power was its own reward. One who watches in
the dark, outside, while his enemy, in utter unconsciousness, is
illuminating his apartment and himself so that every movement of his head
and every button on his coat can be seen and counted, experiences a
peculiar kind of pleasure, if he holds a loaded rifle in his hand, which
he naturally hates to bring to its climax by testing his skill as a
marksman upon the object of his attention.

Besides, Dick had two sides in his nature, almost as distinct as we
sometimes observe in those persons who are the subjects of the condition
known as double consciousness. On his New England side he was cunning
and calculating, always cautious, measuring his distance before he risked
his stroke, as nicely as if he were throwing his lasso. But he was
liable to intercurrent fits of jealousy and rage, such as the light-hued
races are hardly capable of conceiving, blinding paroxysms of passion,
which for the time overmastered him, and which, if they found no ready
outlet, transformed themselves into the more dangerous forces that worked
through the instrumentality of his cool craftiness.

He had failed as yet in getting any positive evidence that there was any
relation between Elsie and the schoolmaster other than such as might
exist unsuspected and unblamed between a teacher and his pupil. A book,
or a note, even, did not prove the existence of any sentiment. At one
time he would be devoured by suspicions, at another he would try to laugh
himself out of them. And in the mean while he followed Elsie's tastes as
closely as he could, determined to make some impression upon her,--to
become a habit, a convenience, a necessity,--whatever might aid him in
the attainment of the one end which was now the aim of his life.

It was to humor one of her tastes already known to the reader, that he
said to her one morning,--"Come, Elsie, take your castanets, and let us
have a dance."

He had struck the right vein in the girl's fancy, for she was in the mood
for this exercise, and ve