“In _my_ power!” The words come triumphantly, though mutteringly, through the ground teeth of the man whom Speranza de Lara had called, and justly so, “a fiend in human shape.” Yes, she had spurned him, loathed him, defied him, forbidden him her presence. Through these long years he had striven to regain her in vain, and now—ah, now!—he would be amply and surely revenged. “Well, I am sure, Mr. Trackem, I cannot thank you sufficiently for the excellent way in which you have laid your plans in order to carry out my commission,” he says warmly. “And now to business. I am to give you £50 down now, and the remaining £150 when the transaction is finally accomplished. Is not that so?” “It is, my lord,” answers the vile creature blandly. Lord Westray pulls out a drawer in his writing table, and taking out a cheque book is not long in writing off an order for £50 to the credit of self. This he hands to his visitor, who accepts it deferentially, and commits it to a greasy pocket-book, after which he takes up his hat and stick, preparatory to leaving. “Won’t you take something?” inquires the earl with his hand on the bell. “A glass of sherry, brandy-and-soda, or what?” “No thank you, my lord, nothing,” answers Mr. Trackem. “Must keep a clear head in my business. Thanks all the same.” They shake hands, these two scheming monsters, both intent on a base and ruffianly deed, yet one of them is regarded as a gentleman, is received and welcomed by society, is high in the graces of the Government of the day, and accounted a clever man and useful statesman. Clothed in these mantles of virtue, he is free to do as he pleases. Wickedness will not bar Society’s doors against him, or lose him his high preferments. Is he not a man, one of the dominant and self-styled superior race? Therefore, is he not free to do as he pleases? * * * * * The day has come,—a hot July one. Down upon the dusty country roads the sun has burnt fiercely all day long. The cattle and beasts of the field have eagerly sought for shade and refuge from the torturing flies that ever haunt their presence, but evening has fallen at last, and with it relief has come. It is cool and pleasant along the banks of the old Thames. The silver streak glides sluggishly along, with the moon’s pale light playing softly upon it. The stars twinkle merrily forth to endure their brief sweet reign; Nature looks ghostlike in her mantle of sleep. A fairy cottage, half hidden in walnut trees and clinging ivy, peeps forth upon that scene. The smooth lawns around it gleam white as the driven snow beneath the moon’s soft gleams. Tall dark trees rise up behind in ebony framework, making an efficient background, while through the still air trembles and quivers the nightingale’s exquisite song.