agabond, and without means of support, and I 'd be
travelling post to Italy."

"To see the widow, I hope; to prosecute the wretched woman who once in
her life thought you were not a scoundrel."

"Ay, and marry her, too, my respected friend, if the intelligence
can give you pleasure to hear it. I 'm sorry we can't ask you to the
wedding."

"No, that you 'll not; she knows you, and while you cheated every one of
_us, she_ discovered you to be the mean fellow you are,--ready, as she
said, to have a share in every enterprise, provided you were always
spared the peril. Do you recognize the portrait there, Paul Hunt, and
can you guess the painter?"

"If she ever made the speech, she 'll live to rue it."

"Not a bit of it, man. That woman is your master. You did your very best
to terrify her, but you never succeeded. She dares you openly; and if I
have to make the journey on foot, I 'll seek her out in Italy, and say,
'Here is one who has the same hate in his heart that you have, and has
less hold on life; help him to our common object.' It's not a cool head
will be wanting in such a moment; so, look out ahead, Master Paul."

"You hint at a game that two can play at."

"Ay, but you 're not one of them. You were always a coward."

[Illustration: 570]

A savage oath, and something like the noise of a struggle, followed.
Neither spoke; but now O'Shea could distinctly mark, by the crashing of
the brushwood, that they had either both fallen to the ground, or that
one had got the other under. Before he could resolve what course to
take, the sharp report of a pistol rung out, the hasty rustle of a man
forcing through the trees followed, and then all was still. It was not
till after some minutes that he determined to go forward. A few steps
brought him to the place, where in a little alley of the wood lay a man
upon his face. He felt his wrist, and then, turning him on his back,
laid his hand on the heart. All was still; he was warm, as if in life,
but life had fled forever! A faint streak of moonlight had now just
fallen upon the spot, and he saw it was Ludlow Paten who lay there.
The ball had entered his left side, and probably pierced the heart,
so instantaneous had been his death. While O'Shea was thus engaged
in tracing the fatal wound, a heavy pocket-book fell from the
breast-pocket. He opened it; its contents were a packet of letters, tied
with a string; he could but see that they bore the address of Paul Hunt,
but h