Having accomplished his purpose, Rutley at once stopped the machine, alighted, and examined Sam. He was soon joined by Jack, who asked, in a low voice: "Have you killed him?" "I don't think so. Bad gash on the side of his head, though." "Dangerous?" "Impossible for me to say." "Just unconscious?" anxiously inquired Jack. "Yes; but I don't think he will interfere with us again for some time. What shall we do with him?" "Take him home." "Good idea," grunted Rutley. "It becomes you decidedly well, Jack, after being a villain, to play the good Samaritan. Well, take this handkerchief and bind his wound," and he raised Sam's head while Jack bound up the wound. "It will make old Harris feel under an obligation to me." "And you can touch him for the loan of ten thousand, to square accounts," added Jack. And again Rutley laughed. "Come, let's pack him on to the machine." CHAPTER VII. Shortly after the insult forced upon him by John Thorpe at the Harris reception, and finding it impossible to enjoy the spirit of the gay throng, Mr. Corway took his departure. Disappointed in his endeavor to communicate with Hazel, who deemed it discreet to avoid his presence until after the affair had been cleared up--and actuated by the purest motives, he could not but feel that he was the mistaken victim of some foul play with which fate had strangely connected him. He recalled the profound respect he had always entertained for and on every occasion he had shown Mrs. Thorpe. And as his thoughts of the affair deepened, his natural fire of resentment softened and died out as effectually as though he had been summoned to stand beside the deathbed of some very dear friend. And the more he thought of it, the more disagreeable and repugnant a quarrel with John Thorpe appeared to him; yet his honor as a gentleman grossly insulted, forbade any other way out of it. Finally he decided to consult Mr. Harris on the best course to pursue, and for that purpose determined to visit Rosemont the next day. It was well on in the afternoon that he left his hotel for the Jefferson street depot, and while walking along First street he noticed a closed "hack," drawn by a pair of black horses, rapidly proceeding in the same direction. As it passed him, he felt sure that he had caught a glimpse of Lord Beauchamp's profile, through the small, glazed lookout at the back of the vehicle. It was late when Corway returned from Rosemont, and strangely coincident, as he stepped down off the car he saw that same "hack" move off, and that same face inside, made plain by a chance gleam of light from a street lamp, that quivered athwart the casement of the door. But except for a thought of "devilish queer, unless 'me lord' was expecting some one," he attached no further importance to it, and dismissed it from his mind.