against
himself, the libellous calumnies of the low press, the disgusting
caricatures of infamous prints, were scattered about amid the wrecks of
the debauch.

Roland saw these things with sorrow, but without anger. "I must have
fallen low indeed," muttered he, "when it is by such men I am judged."

In the room which once had been his study a great pile of unsettled
bills covered the table, the greater number of which he remembered to
have given the money for; there were no letters, however, nor even
one card of an acquaintance, so that, save to his creditors, his very
existence seemed to be forgotten.

Wearied of his sad pilgrimage from room to room, he sat down at last in
a small boudoir, which it had been his caprice once to adorn with the
portraits of "his friends!" sketched by a fashionable artist. There they
were, all smiling blandly, as he left them. What a commentary on their
desertion of him were the looks so full of benevolence and affection!
There was Frobisher, lounging in all the ease of fashionable
indifference, but still with a smile upon his languid features;
there was Upton, the very picture of straightforward good feeling and
frankness; there was Jennings, all beaming with generosity; and Linton,
too, occupying the chief place, seemed to stare with the very expression
of resolute attachment that so often had imposed on Cashel, and made him
think him a most devoted but perhaps an indiscreet friend. Roland's own
portrait had been turned to the wall, while on the reverse was written,
in large characters, the words "To be hung, or hanged, elsewhere." The
brutal jest brought the color for an instant to his cheek, but the next
moment he was calm and tranquil as before.

Lost in musings, the time stole by; and it was late in the night ere he
betook himself to rest His sleep was the heavy slumber of an overworked
mind; but he awoke refreshed and with a calm courage to breast the tide
of fortune, however it might run.

Life seemed to present to him two objects of paramount interest. One
of these was the discovery of Kennyfeck's murderer; the second was the
payment of his debt of vengeance to Linton. Some secret instinct
induced him to couple the two together; and although neither reason
nor reflection afforded a clew to link them, they came ever in company
before his mind, and rose like one fact before him.

Mr. Hammond, the eminent lawyer, to whom he had written a few lines,
came punctually at ten o'clo