"I do succeed to them—more's the pity. I wish Thomas had lived to bear them to a green old age." "Let me advise you not to _assume_ them, at any rate, Harry Chandos the time has not come for it, and the world might laugh at you. George Chandos, fugitive-criminal though he has been, would succeed until proved guilty. Wait." "You are wasting my time," rejoined Sir Harry. "Will you pay a visit to the west wing?" "For what purpose? You are fooling me!" "I told you the purpose—to see my brother George. You shall see him, on my word of honour." The answer was a gesture of assent, and Sir Harry crossed the hall to ascend the stairs. Mr. Edwin Barley slowly followed him, doubt in his step, defiance in his face. That he was thoroughly perplexed, is saying little; but he came to the conclusion as he walked along the gallery that George Heneage was about to beseech his clemency. His clemency! Hill opened the west wing. Seeing a stranger, she would have barred it again, but Sir Harry put her aside with calm authority, and went straight to one of the rooms. Turning for a moment there, he spoke to his visitor. "We have not been friends, Mr. Barley; the one has regarded the other as his natural enemy, still I would not allow even you to come in here without a word of warning, lest you should be shocked." "Lead on, sir," was the imperative answer. And Sir Harry went in without further delay. On the bed, laid out in his shroud, sleeping the peaceful sleep of death, was the emaciated form of George Heneage Chandos. Mr. Edwin Barley gazed at him, and the perspiration broke out on his forehead. "By heaven! he has escaped me!" "He has escaped all the foes of this world," answered Sir Harry, lowly and reverently. "You perceive now, Mr. Edwin Barley, that were you to bring the whole police force of the county here, they would only have the trouble of going back for their pains. He is at rest from persecution; and we are at rest from suspense and anxiety." "It has destroyed my life's aim," observed Mr. Edwin Barley. "And with it your thirst for revenge. When a man pursues another with the persistent hatred that you have pursued him, it can be called nothing less than revenge." "Revenge! What do you mean? He did commit the murder." "His hand was the hand that killed Philip King: but it was not intentional murder. He never knew exactly—at the time or since—how he fired the gun, save that his elbow caught against the branch of a tree when the gun was on cock. Some movement of his own undoubtedly caused it; he knew that; but not a wilful one. He asserted this with his dying lips before taking the Sacrament." "Wilful or not wilful, he murdered Philip King," insisted Mr. Edwin Barley. "And has paid for it. The banned life he has been obliged to live since was surely an expiation. His punishment was greater than he could bear; it was prolonged and prolonged, and his heart broke."