"Let it be so supposed then, and discourage all further inquiry. Good night--" and here he again covered his face; on which Geoffery sought his own room, and having carefully shut and bolted his door, drew the purloined letter from his pocket, and without waiting to sit down, perused its contents with a countenance of eager satisfaction. He then proceeded to unfold and read an enclosure which seemed to make him look grave. After this he paced the apartment lost in thought, from which he broke into occasional soliloquy, thus: "My coming over too, just at this juncture, was the merest chance: if I had not been short of cash, I should not have thought of it." A long pause followed.--"He was always a vain fool," he recommenced: "the dread of being laughed at, I make no doubt, has goaded him to this! There must have been derangement of course, temporary, at least." He opened the letter again, and looked at a passage or two--"Incoherent enough!" he ejaculated. "But my happening to see the packet," he pursued, "was so fortunate----He had not noticed it, I should think----that, however, is a point which I must ascertain, for he appears to be by some means, aware of the suicide----but can he prove it, if necessary?----at present he seems desirous to conceal the fact, which is so far well, the mystery will look suspicious.----" Here he again opened the enclosure, shook his head, looked serious, and paced the room once or twice----"Their being abroad, however, just at this time, has happened well," he said--stopped and stood still--then added, after a long pause of deep and motionless thought, "This is most probably the only proof----It would certainly appear from its style that he had made no previous disclosure----I must talk with him----I shall easily perceive how far he is informed, and, at any rate, it is highly improbable that the letter has been seen by any witness." CHAPTER XXII. The slumbers which followed the prolonged reveries of Geoffery Arden, were rendered unrefreshing by feverish dreams, some of a truly horrible character; in particular the vision that presented itself on his first closing his eyes; which was, that he had himself for some reason or other been condemned to be hung; that it was the night before his execution, and that he was laying trembling in the condemned cell, dreading the approach of dawn. The agony of his feelings awoke him. What he had just suffered, and his infinite relief on finding that all was but a dream, had for some moments a salutary effect, even on his heart, which, if ever heart of man was justly entitled to the epithet, was indeed "desperately wicked;" now, however, the scheme with which he had laid his head on his pillow, seemed almost too diabolical to be attempted; he almost shrank from the idea of inflicting on any human creature the intense suffering with the recent escape from which his own heart still beat audibly.