"Poor devil!" he muttered; "I didn't want your life, but if, as you said, there was only room for one of us, why, you had to go! Brother, eh? Good-bye, dear brother Abel; I'm going to play Cain with a vengeance now; but my mark is on my arm, and not on my brow. Curse it, how it throbs and burns!" With a low inspiration of the breath he hurriedly threw off his coat, and drew up his shirt-sleeve, for half was torn away in the struggle, and laying bare a great puckered scar upon his arm, it showed red and fiery, probably, though, from injury in the struggle. "It is nothing, I suppose. One would think he had had the bite, and not I. Rabid as a maddened dog!" He hastily drew on his coat, shivering with cold and horror. "That would be horrible," he muttered, "to go mad like a dog! What a fool I am! I shall stay here till I am taken." He glanced sharply round, and then started off at a steady walk, thankful for the coming shades of night, which would hide his disordered apparel. His figure had hardly grown faint in the distance when a couple of young men crossing the common with rod and basket on their shoulders came upon the prostrate form of John Huish, as they chatted carelessly of the day's sport. "Drunk, or a tramp?" said one. "Both," said the other carelessly, as he glanced at the figure. "By Jove! Harry, there's blood. It's suicide!" They hurried to the spot, and there was still light enough to display the tokens of the fierce struggle in the trampled turf, and the torn neck of the injured man's shirt. "It's murder!" cried the first speaker. "Run for help!" "Here it is!" said the other excitedly, as several figures were seen approaching; and he uttered a loud shout. "What is it? Have you found them?" cried the first of the fresh party, panting. "Found this man--he's dead." "We've been hunting them for long enough," said the other. "Yes, that's one; here's his coat and waistcoat. Good God! is he dead?" "I don't know," said the man, leaning over Huish's body. "He's got an ugly wound. I wonder who he is?" "I know," said the man who had come up. "We have found his pocket-book and a letter. His name's Huish--John Huish--and the letter's from a doctor--Stonor, I think the name is." "Never mind the name as long as it is a doctor!" cried the man who knelt by Huish. "Someone run for him. Here, who's got a flask?" Volume 3, Chapter XVI. NOT ROOM FOR TWO. The hunted man's wife sat watching at her window hour after hour, as she had watched days and nights before--bitter, vindictive, dwelling on the cruelty, the blows and wrongs, from which she had suffered at this man's hands, and from the woman who played the part of mother to him--jealous tyrant to her.