and so immersed in
his own cares as not to hear one word the other was saying.

"If I were to talk in that way, Charley, you 'd be the very first to
call out, What selfishness! what an utter indifference to all feelings
but your own! You are merely dealing with certain points that affect
yourself, and you forget a girl that loves you."

"Am I so sure of that? Am I quite certain that an old attachment--she
owned to me herself that she liked him, that tutor fellow of yours--has
not a stronger hold on her heart than I have? There 's a letter from
him. I have n't opened it I have a sort of half suspicion that when I
do read it I 'll have a violent desire to shoot him. It is just as if I
knew that, inside that packet there, was an insult awaiting me, and yet
I 'd like to spare myself the anger it will cause me when I break the
seal; and so I walk round the table and look at the letter, and turn
it over, and at last--" With the word he tore open the envelope, and
unfolded the note. "Has he not given me enough of it? One, two, three,
ay, four pages! When a man writes at such length, he is certain to be
either very tiresome or very disagreeable, not to say that I never
cared much for your friend Mr. Layton; he gave himself airs with us poor
unlettered folk--"

"Come, come, Charley; if you were not in an ill mood, you 'd never say
anything so ungenerous."

It was possible that he felt the rebuke to be just, for he did not
reply, but, seating himself in the window, began to read the letter.
More than once did Agincourt make some remark, or ask some question.
Of even his movements of impatience Heathcote took no note, as, deeply
immersed in the contents of the letter, he continued to read on.

"Well, I'll leave you for a while, Charley," said he, at last; "perhaps
I may drop in to see you this evening."

"Wait; stay where you are!" said Heathcote, abruptly, and yet not
lifting his eyes from the lines before him. "What a story!--what a
terrible story!" muttered he to himself. Then beckoning to Agincourt to
come near, he caught him by the arm, and in a low whisper said, "Who do
you think she tarns out to be? The widow of Godfrey Hawke!"

"I never so much as heard of Godfrey Hawke."

"Oh, I forgot; you were an infant at the time. But surely you mast have
heard or read of that murder at Jersey?--a well-known gambler, named
Hawke, poisoned by his associates, while on a visit at his house."

"And who is she?"

"Mrs. Penthony