"It means, Mr. Barclay, that I come with authority to prevent the unholy alliance you were about to force upon this helpless and unprotected girl, to place the seal upon your crimes, by clasping in wedlock the hand of the sister with that which is red with the brother's blood." "'T is false--the boy killed himself, as Edith herself knows full well. Am I to be held accountable for the dissipation of a young fool, who, when once the curb was removed, went headlong to destruction without the necessity of any prompting from me." "We will waive that part of the question, if you please, Mr. Barclay. I have brought with me one who can prove much more than that. Come forward, Antoine." The Frenchman advanced, and Barclay grew pale as he recognized him. "Let us retire to a private room," continued Atwood, in a lower tone--"I would not have Mrs. Euston and her daughter hear too suddenly the developments I am prepared to make." Then turning to Edith he said-- "You are saved, my dear Edith. Retire with your mother, while I settle with Mr. Barclay." Mechanically Barclay led the way into an adjoining room. When there, he turned haughtily and said-- "Now, sir, explain yourself--tell me why my privacy is thus invaded, and--" Atwood interrupted him. "It is useless to attempt bravado with me, sir. Your whole career is too intimately known to me to render it of any avail. You know that from my boyhood I have loved Miss Euston, for you may remember a conversation which took place between us several years since, when you were received as a visiter at her mother's house. Jealousy enabled you to penetrate what had been carefully veiled from others, and you taxed me with what I would not deny. Do you remember the words you used to the boy you then spoke to? That you would move heaven and earth to win Edith Euston." "To what does all this tend?" asked Barclay, in an irritated tone. "Patience, and you will see. I returned from Europe and found that Mrs. Euston's family had left for Havanna. Her lawsuit had gone against her, and she had lost her home. Nothing more was known of her. I lost no time in following her. I reached Cuba, and after many inquiries, traced her to the house of the family which had received her beneath their roof. There I heard the history of her son's unhappy death, at the moment he was about to confer independence upon his mother and sister. _You_ were mentioned as a visiter after his death; your _generous_ offer to share with Miss Euston as your wife the wealth which should have been hers was dwelt on. All this aroused a vague suspicion in my mind. I made minute inquiries, and traced you through all the orgies of your dissipation. One night I was following up the inquiry, and I entered a tavern much frequented by foreigners. A man sat apart in gloomy silence. One of his comrades said-- "'Antoine grieves over the loss of his bird. All the money the American paid him does not make him forget that he sold his best friend!'