That day passed like a dream. The meeting was quickly arranged. Six o'clock on the following morning was the hour fixed. The place was a field, the first beyond the turnpike gate, and within a mile of the city. As soon as Michael made sure of the duel, he saw his confidential clerk. His name was Burrage. He had been a servant in the banking-house for forty years, and had known Michael since his birth. It was he who gave the newspaper into Allcraft's hands, on the first arrival of the latter at the bank that morning. He was a quiet old man of sixty, an affectionate creature, and as much a part of the banking-house as the iron chest, the desk, the counter, or any other solid fixture. He stepped softly into his master's room after he had been summoned there, and he gazed at his unhappy principal as a father might at his own child in misfortune--a beloved and favourite child. "You are not well this morning, sir," said Burrage most respectfully. "You look very pale and anxious." "My looks belie me, Burrage. I am very well. I have not been so well for years. I am composed and happy. I have been ill, but the time is past. How old are you, Burrage?" "Turned threescore, sir; old enough to die." "Die--die! death is a sweet thing, old man, when it comes to the care-worn. I have had my share of trouble." "Too much, sir--too much!" said Burrage, his eyes filling with water. "You have half killed yourself here. I am sure your poor father never expected this. Nobody could have expected it in his time, when you were a little, fat, rosy-cheeked boy, running about without a thought, except a thought of kindness for other people." Michael Allcraft burst into a flood of tears--they gushed faster and faster into his eyes, and he sobbed as only men sob who have reached the climax of earthly suffering and trial. "Do not take on so, my dear sir," said Burrage, running to him. "Pray, be calm. I am sure you are unwell. You have been ill for some time. You should see a doctor--although I am very much afraid that your disease is beyond their cure--in truth I am." "Burrage," said Michael in a whisper, and still sighing convulsively--"It is all over. It is finished. Prepare for the crash--look to your own safety. Hide yourself from the gaze of men. It will strike us all dead." "You frighten me, Mr Allcraft.--You are really very ill. Your brain is overworked--you want a little repose and recreation." "Yes, you are right Burrage--the recreation of a jail--the repose of a tomb. We will have one, at least--yes, one--and I have made the selection." "Have you heard any bad news to-day, sir?" "None--excellent news to-day. No more hopes and fears--no alarms--no lying and knavery--eternal peace now, and not eternal wretchedness." "Had you not better leave the bank, Mr Allcraft, and go home? Your hands are burning hot. You are in a high fever."