g his blood to answer for. If we could but get the father and son
into an open quarrel, which would place him in suspicious
circumstances--do you understand me?--and then do the old man's
business--the blame might fall upon him instead of upon you."

"I would certainly rather transfer the hemp collar to his neck, if it
could be safely accomplished. But how can it be brought about?"

"The devil will help us at a pinch. I have scarcely turned it over in my
mind. But I'm sure your heart would fail you, Godfrey, if it came to
murder."

"Do you take _me_ for a coward?"

"Not exactly. I was making some allowance for natural affection."

"Pshaw!" muttered his companion. "Only give me the chance. Affection!
What affection do I owe to father or son? Anthony robbed me of my
father's heart, and now stands between me and my uncle's fortune."

"I owe Anthony something on my own account, if it were only for the
contempt with which he treated me in the presence of Miss Whitmore.
By-the-by, Mr. Godfrey, are all your hopes in that quarter at an end?"

"Oh, hang her! Don't name her, Mathews. I would rather have Mary without
a farthing than be domineered over by that pretty prude, and her hideous
old aunt. I believe I might have the old maid for the asking--ha! ha!
ha!"

"Mr. Godfrey," said Mathews, taking no notice of his mistimed mirth, "I
would advise you, as a friend, not to mention our designs on the old
miser to Mary."

"She won't peach."

"I'd not trust her. Women are strange creatures. They will often do the
most wicked things when their own interests and passions are concerned;
and, at other times, will sacrifice their best friends, from a foolish
qualm of conscience, or out of a mistaken feeling of benevolence. If you
wish our scheme to be successful, don't let Mary into the secret."

A wild laugh sounded in his ears: both started; and, on turning round,
beheld Mary standing quietly beside them. Mathews surveyed his sister
with a stern searching glance. She smiled contemptuously; but drew back,
as if she feared him.

"Did you overhear our conversation, Mary?"

"I can keep my own secrets," said the girl, sullenly. "I don't want to
be burthened with yours. They are not worth the trouble of keeping. My
sleep is bad enough already. A knowledge of your deeds, William, would
not make it sounder."

"It would make you sleep so soundly that evil thoughts would not be
likely to keep you awake," said her brother, clenching