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e I had passed many an evening with old Frank; and, supposing the gardener had taken possession of it, I opened the door. Close to the window two persons were sitting, so deeply engaged in conversation that they did not remark my entrance, and I took the opportunity of observing them at leisure. They were both young men--both tall and good-looking; one remarkably dark, with great umbrageous whiskers and mustaches; the other a chestnut-haired, fresh-complexioned youth, so like poor old Frank in the set on of his head and breadth of his shoulders, that I knew in a moment it could be no one but his son. They seemed both very much excited about something; but from the whispered tone of their conversation, it was difficult to make out what it was. The dark man, who was six or seven years older than his companion, had apparently been saying something that shocked the other, for he clenched his hand, and threw his eyes despairingly to the ceiling; and no wonder, for the words I heard, as I advanced from the screen at the door, were enough to raise a shudder in any person's breast. He said-- "I had him murdered in the shooting-box." "But why?" enquired Frank Edwards, looking less startled than could be expected. "Why? Because Isabella could not be happy while he lived." "Recollect I had no hand in it," said Frank. "I wouldn't have agreed to it on any account, and told you so before you did it." Great heavens! what a secret to be thrust upon me! and what an introduction to the son of my poor friend--the accomplice of a murderer--who had evidently been consulted about the crime, and though he certainly had protested against it, had allowed it to be carried into effect! I was hesitating whether I should not retire at once, when Frank turned round and saw me. He rose, and received the apologies I muttered for my intrusion with the most astonishing self-command. I determined to conceal my knowledge of their conversation from them; and really, looking at the clear open countenance of the boy, it was difficult to believe that he knew any thing of so shocking a kind. I was introduced to the other, Mr Percy Marvale, and saw so much Italian, or perhaps gipsy, blood in his dark skin, and such a fierce expression in his coal-black eyes, that I was not so much surprised at his being implicated in the fearful deed. He looked just like one of the fellows on the stage who cut throats in a heroic fashion on the slightest provocation.
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