Her eyes flashed an angry glance at him. “What do you mean?” she stammered. “I don’t quite—” She broke off in silence, as her eyes met his sorrowful and yet scornful glance. There was something in the searching gaze of her husband that seemed to read the very secrets of her soul. It stung her proud heart with remorse. Turning to Avondale, the captain said: “I ought to have killed you long ago, before this liaison with Mrs. Osborn began. I should have shot you to death like some vile cur, d—— you, and would have done so but for my little son.” “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Avondale, now thoroughly alarmed. “Really, sir, you are mis-tak—” “Stop!” cried the captain, fiercely, “do not add to your dastardly crimes by lying. I know all. Give me the letter—the one which Mrs. Osborn wrote you this afternoon—in which she promised to give you some money.” Lord Avondale seemed to shrivel up before the captain’s emphatic demand. He nervously fumbled the letter from his pocket. The captain unceremoniously took possession of it. “Really, sir,” stammered Avondale, “I am only a man, not a saint, you know, and these improprieties with Mrs. Osborn can hardly be considered as any fault of mine.” Mrs. Osborn turned toward her paramour, and a look of disgust flitted across her face. It began to dawn upon her that he was an arrant coward. “Adam attempted to lay the blame on the woman in the Garden of Eden,” shouted the captain, in anger. “You, perhaps, are a gentleman by birth, but you are an infernal wretch by practice. Titled you may be, but at heart you are betrayer of the virtue of a weak woman. The nobility at your hands is a prostituted aristocracy; your admiration and attentions are an insult to all good women. Return to the shores whence you came, you contemptible scoundrel, and never again set foot on free America’s soil. Your mission was one of adventure and fortune-hunting. Release that noble girl, Ethel Horton, from the promise of marriage which you and your coterie of damnable conspirators have forced and inveigled her into making, or, by the Eternal, your bones shall bleach in Dead Man’s Hollow! Will you do this?” “Yes, indeed—certainly,” stammered Lord Avondale, who was shaking from head to foot in cowardly fright. “Then go!” fairly yelled the captain, “cur that you are, and, if you value your worthless life, never let me look into your licentious face again. I will look for you to-morrow morning at sunrise, and if I find you in this part of the State, by the living God, your life or mine shall pay the penalty.” CHAPTER XXXII.—THE SILENCING OF GOSSIP