e flung
Thornton against the opposite wall with such force, that the blood
gushed out of his mouth and nostrils. The gambler rose slowly, and
wiping the blood from his face, fixed his malignant and fiery eye upon
his aggressor, with an expression of collected hate and vengeance, that
made my very blood creep.

"It is not my day now," he said, with a calm, quiet, cold voice, and
then, suddenly changing his manner, he approached me with a sort of bow,
and made some remark on the weather.

Meanwhile, Glanville had sunk on the sofa, exhausted, less by his late
effort than the convulsive passion which had produced it. He rose in
a few moments, and said to Thornton, "Pardon my violence; let this pay
your bruises;" and he placed a long and apparently well filled purse in
Thornton's hand. That veritable philosophe took it with the same air as
a dog receives the first caress from the hand which has just chastised
him; and feeling the purse between his short, hard fingers, as if to
ascertain the soundness of its condition, quietly slid it into his
breeches pocket, which he then buttoned with care, and pulling his
waistcoat down, as if for further protection to the deposit, he
turned towards Glanville, and said, in his usual quaint style of
vulgarity--"Least said, Sir Reginald, the soonest mended. Gold is a good
plaister for bad bruises. Now, then, your will:--ask and I will answer,
unless you think Mr. Pelham un de trop."

I was already at the door, with the intention of leaving the room,
when Glanville cried, "Stay, Pelham, I have but one question to ask Mr.
Thornton. Is John Tyrrell still living?"

"He is!" answered Thornton, with a sardonic smile.

"And beyond all want!" resumed Glanville.

"He is!" was the tautological reply.

"Mr. Thornton," said Glanville, with a calm voice, "I have now done with
you--you may leave the room!"

Thornton bowed with an air of ironical respect, and obeyed the command.

I turned to look at Glanville. His countenance, always better adapted to
a stern, than a soft expression, was perfectly fearful; every line in
it seemed dug into a furrow; the brows were bent over his large and
flashing eyes with a painful intensity of anger and resolve; his teeth
were clenched firmly as if by a vice, and the thin upper lip, which was
drawn from them with a bitter curl of scorn, was as white as death. His
right hand had closed upon the back of the massy chair, over which his
tall nervous frame leant, a