that, but I'm not goin' ter stay in er place where a d--n scoundrel can insult ma wife an' I can't pertect her, an' you know there's been a time when I could. Good-bye, Colonel." "Good-bye, Bill; you'll regret it I'm afraid." Bill Sikes went back home to prepare for his journey northward. CHAPTER XXII. A Ship Sails. When on the evening of December 1, 1898, the old Clyde steamer drifted out from her docks into mid stream in the harbor of Wilmington, among the host of passengers that stood upon her deck, with tear-dimmed eyes, to bid adieu to the dear old town was Molly Pierrepont. Leaning upon the shoulder of her foster mother, whose heart was too full to speak, she frantically waved her handkerchief and cried "Farewell, old home! Dear as thou hast been to me, I must leave thee for ever; for thou art in the possession of the wicked. The spoiler is in thy borders. The blood of innocents has flowed freely in thy highways, and the murderer and the assassin stalk abroad in thy streets. But it matters not where I go, thy days of equity, when every citizen, it mattered not how humble, was free, shall ever live with me. Days of childhood innocence, the shouts of the children, the clang of the school bell, the rippling of the rills, the hum of bees will be the means of helping me to forget thy latter days of turmoil and strife. Good-bye, old home! Good-bye!" CHAPTER XXIII. Bill Sikes in New York. It was near the Christmas holidays, a genuine Northern winter day, cold and piercing, going to the marrow in spite of heavy clothing. Francis Lewis, contractor and builder, sat in his comfortable office in West Forty-seventh street, New York city, when the door was pushed open and a light-skinned colored man entered. His face was thin and pinched, his hair and beard slightly mixed with gray, and he dragged one foot as he walked.