time; but fate had gone against him, and here,
on the fifteenth of September, he was yet in
London.

Mrs.Rivière was dead. They had believed her
to be gaining strength at Sydenham, and she had
seemed to be so much better, that the very day
was fixed for their journey to Liverpool, when,
having committed some trifling imprudence, she
caught a severe cold, fell dangerously ill, and,
after lingering some three or four weeks, died
passively in her sleep, like a sick child. This
event it was that delayed William Trefalden
in his flight. He chafed, he wearied, he burned
to be gone—but in vain; for he loved Helen
Rivière—loved her with all the depth and
passion that were in him, and, so loving her,
could no more have left her in her extremity of
grief and apprehension than he could have saved
her mother from the grave. So he waited and
waited on, week after week, till Mrs. Rivière
was one day laid to rest in a sheltered corner of
Norwood Cemetery. By this time September
had come, and he well knew that there was
danger for him in every rising of the sun. He
knew that Saxon might come back, that the
storm might burst and overwhelm him, at any
moment. So he hurried on his final preparations
with feverish haste, and thus, on the evening
of the fifteenth, was winding up his accounts,
ready to take flight on the morrow.

Now he untied a bundle of documents, and,
having glanced rapidly at their endorsements,
consigned them, unread, to the waste-paper basket.
Now he opened a packet of letters, which he
immediately tore up into countless fragments,
thrust into the heart of the dull fire, and watched
as they burned away. Deeds, copies of deeds,
accounts, letters, returned cheques, and
miscellaneous papers of every description, were thus
disposed of in quick succession, some being given
to the flames, and some to the basket. At length,
when table and safe were both thoroughly cleared,
and the twilight had deepened into dusk, Mr.
Trefalden lit his office-lamp, refreshed himself
with a draught of cold water, and sat down once
more to his desk.

This time he had other and pleasanter work
on hand.

He drew the cash-box towards him, plunged
his hands into it with a sort of eager triumph,
and ranged its contents before him on the table.
Those contents were of various kinds—paper,
gold, and precious stones. Paper of various
colours and various qualities, thick, thin,
semi-transparent, bluish, yellowish, and white; gold
in rouleaux; and precious stones in tiny canvas
bags, tied at the mouth with red tape. Money—
all money; or that which was equivalent to money!

For a moment, William Trefalden leaned back
in his chair and surveyed his treasure. It was a
great fortune, a splendid fortune, a fortune
carried off, as it were, at the sword's point. He
had his own audacity, his own matchless skill to
thank for every farthing of it. There it lay,
two millions of money!

He smiled. Was his satisfaction troubled by
no shadow of remorse? Not in the least. If
some fresh lines had shown themselves of late
about his mouth and brow, it may be safely
assumed that they were summoned there by no
"compunctious visitings." If William Trefalden
looked anxious, it was because he felt the
trembling of the mine beneath his feet, and knew that
his danger grew more imminent with the delay
of every hour. If William Trefalden cherished
a regret, it was not because he had robbed his
cousin of so much, but rather that he had not
taken more.

Two millions of money! Pshaw! Why not
three? Why not four? Two millions were
barely his own rightful share of the Trefalden
legacy. Had not Saxon inherited four million
seven hundred and seventy-six thousand pounds,
and in simple fairness should not he, William
Trefalden, have secured at least another three
hundred and eighty-eight thousand for himself?

There was one moment when he might have
had it—one moment when, by the utterance of a
word, he might have swept all, all, into his own
hands! That moment was when Saxon gave
him the power of attorney in the library of
Castletowers. He remembered that his cousin
had even proposed with his own lips to double
the amount of the investment. Fool! over-
cautious, apprehensive fool that he had been to
refuse it. He had absolutely not dared at the
moment to grasp at the whole of the golden
prize. He had dreaded lest the young man
should not keep the secret faithfully; lest
suspicion might be awakened among those through
whose hands the money must pass; lest
something should happen, something be said,
something be done to bring about discovery. So,
fearing to risk too much, he had let the glorious
chance slip through his fingers, and now, when
he might have realised all, he had to be content
with less than half!

Well, even so, had he not achieved the
possession of two millions? As he thought thus,
as he contemplated the wealth before his eyes,
he saw before him, not mere gold and paper,
but a dazzling vision of freedom, luxury, and
love. His thoughts traversed the Atlantic, and
there—in a new world, among a new people
—he saw himself dwelling in a gorgeous home;
rich in lands, equipages, books, pictures, slaves;
adored by the woman whom he loved, and
surrounded by all that makes life beautiful. Nor
did he omit from this picture the respect of
his fellow-citizens, or the affection of his
dependents. The man meant to live honestly in
that magnificent future; nay, would have
preferred to win his two millions honestly, if he
could. He had too fine a taste, too keen a
sense of what was agreeable, not to appreciate
to its fullest extent the luxury of respectability.
William Trefalden liked a clean conscience as he
liked a clean shirt, because it was both comfortable
and gentlemanly, and suited his notions of
refinement. So he fully intended to sin no