with the old
life, and that I would seek no harm to my old enemy? I simply declined
to discuss the matter with him, and he went away.

"From that time he commenced to watch me. I laid my plans deeply, but
somehow he got to hear of them. When I went down on a visit to you, Lord
Lathon, that I might be near Sir Geoffrey, he took a small cottage in
the neighborhood, intending to do his best to counteract my schemes. But
I was too cunning for him.

"On the morning of Sir Geoffrey's murder I was on the cliffs, under the
pretence of botanizing. While there I heard the guns of a shooting
party, and through a field-glass I saw Mr. Thurwell and Sir Geoffrey
Kynaston. At that time I scarcely thought that chance would bring Sir
Geoffrey within my power, but I made up my mind to watch them.

"Accordingly I descended from the cliffs, and, on my way, passed close
to my son's cottage. I looked in at his sitting-room through the open
windows, and it seemed as though the devil must have guided my eyes. His
cabinet was open, and right opposite my eyes was a pair of long Turkish
daggers carelessly thrown down with a heap of other curios. I listened.
There was no one about. I stepped through the window, seized one of
them, and hurried away. About a hundred yards from the cottage was a
long narrow belt of plantation running from a considerable distance
inland almost to the cliff side. Here I concealed myself, and looked out
at the shooting party. I could see them all hurrying across the moor
except Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. While I was wondering what had become of
him, I heard footsteps on the other side of the plantation. I stole back
to the edge and looked out. Coming slowly down by the side of the ditch
was Sir Geoffrey, with his gun under his arm, and whistling softly to
himself. He was alone. There was no one within sight. Gentlemen, it is
an awful confession which I am making to you. I stole out upon him as
he passed, and stabbed him to the heart, so that he died without a
groan."

Rembrandt might have found a worthy study in the faces of the men seated
round that brilliant supper table. Blank horror seemed to hold them all
speechless. Sir Allan, too, was trembling, and his hand, which rested
upon the table, was as white as the damask cloth.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and a waiter entered.

"A gentleman wishes to speak with Sir Allan Beaumerville," he announced.

Sir Philip Roden rose to his feet, and pointed to the