ery extremity of despair. "Then the game is
unquestionably lost. It was, however, boldly and skilfully played, and I
am not a man to whimper over a fatal turn of the dice. In a few minutes,
gentlemen," he added, "I shall have changed my dress, and be ready to
accompany you."

"We cannot lose sight of you for an instant," replied Mr. Sharpe. "One of
the officers must accompany you."

"Be it so: I shall not detain either him or you long."

Captain Everett, followed by the officer, passed into his dressing-room.
He pulled off his gown; and pointing to a coat suspended on a peg at the
further extremity of the apartment, requested the constable to reach it
for him. The man hastened to comply with his wish. Swiftly, Everett
opened a dressing-case which stood on a table near him: the officer
heard the sharp clicking of a pistol-lock, and turned swiftly round. Too
late! A loud report rang through the house; the room was filled with
smoke; and the wretched assassin and suicide lay extended on the floor a
mangled corpse!

It would be useless minutely to recapitulate, the final winding-up of
this eventful drama. Suffice it to record, that Mr. Frederick Mordaunt
was, after a slight delay, restored to freedom and a splendid position in
society. After the lapse of a decent interval, he espoused Lucy
Carrington. Their eldest son represents in this present parliament one of
the English boroughs, and is by no means an undistinguished member of the
Commons House.

"THE ACCOMMODATION BILL."

Such of the incidents of the following narrative as did not fall within
my own personal observation, were communicated to me by the late Mr.
Ralph Symonds, and the dying confessions of James Hornby, one of the
persons killed by the falling in of the iron roof of the Brunswick
Theatre. A conversation the other day with a son of Mr. Symonds, who has
been long settled in London, recalled the entire chain of circumstances
to my memory with all the vivid distinctness of a first impression.

One evening towards the close of the year 1806, the Leeds coach brought
Mr. James Hornby to the village of Pool, on the Wharf, in the West-Riding
of Yorkshire. A small but respectable house on the confines of the place
had been prepared for his reception, and a few minutes after his descent
from the top of the coach, the pale, withered-looking man disappeared
within it. Except for occasional trips to Otley, a small market-town
distant about three miles f