"My dear old fellow," cried Artingale, grasping his friend's hand, as Cynthia possessed herself of the other, "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. But jump in, and we'll go home at once. We'll have such a dinner, and those dining-room curtains shall be incensed, and no mistake, to-night." "No, no, not now," said Magnus; and in spite of all his friend's pressure he declined. "Then I shall come with you," cried Artingale. "Cynthy, may I go?" "I suppose you must," she said merrily. "Mr Magnus, you are the only gentleman to whom I would give him up." Then there was a pleasant chat for a time, the carriage drove on, and Artingale and his friend were left standing by the Park rails. "Not one word," said Magnus to himself; "Julia is indeed dead." "Why, Mag, old man, this is the very spot where--" "Hush! Look!" cried Magnus, grasping his friend's arm. "God, I thank Thee. At last--at last!" Artingale followed the direction of his eyes, and started, for there, on the other side of the drive, was the great picturesque ruffian, slowly sauntering along, quite unchanged, and with the same defiant air. Artingale restrained his friend, who was about to leap over the railings. "No, no," he whispered, "let's follow him, and see where he goes. We shall find her then." It was a slow task, for Jock Morrison went first out on to the grass and lay down for an hour, but the watchers did not quit their post for a moment, but tracked him when he rose, step by step, and along the great highway due east, till he turned up Grey's-inn-lane, and then up one of the narrow courts. It was as ill-favoured and vile as any there, and for the moment Magnus thought he had missed his man, but as, in spite of the scowling looks around, he hurried down the court, a heavy step on one of the staircases acted as his guide; and, closely followed by Artingale, he bounded up to the second landing, which he reached just as a door was slammed to, and he turned a countenance upon his friend that made him shudder. "At last, Harry," he said in a low whisper. "At last! God of heaven, how I have prayed for this time!" "Stop," cried Artingale, excitedly; "you shall not go in. Give me that pistol, Magnus. You shall not go." He clung to his friend's arm, but Magnus threw him off. That there was no mistake was evident, for from beyond the filthy paintless door came the hoarse bullying tones of the fellow's voice, and, unable to contain himself longer, Magnus dashed open the door, and stepped in. He was greeted by a volley of oaths, and the great ruffian started up from a bed upon the floor where he had evidently thrown himself down, and as he did so, with a face like ashes and his teeth set, Magnus covered him with his pistol.