Kester drew in his breath with something like a sigh. It was as he had feared. Mother Mim had told everything, and, of all people in the world, to the wretch now walking by his side. He braced his nerves for the coming encounter. “I have heard something before to-day of the rigmarole of which you speak,” he said, haughtily; “but I need hardly tell you that the affair is nothing but a tissue of vilest lies from beginning to end.” “I dare say it is,” said Skeggs, good humouredly. “But it may be rather difficult for you to prove that it is so.” “It will be still more difficult for you to prove that it is not so.” “Oh! I am quite aware of all the difficulties both for and against—no man more so. You have got possession, and a hundred other points in your favour. Still, with what evidence I have already, and with what evidence I can get elsewhere, I shall be able to make out a strong case—a very strong case against you in a court of justice.” “Evidence elsewhere!” said Kester, disdainfully. “There is no such thing, unless you are clever enough to make the dead speak.” “Even that has been done before now,” said Skeggs quietly. “But in this case we have no need to go to the churchyard to collect our evidence. I have a living, breathing witness whom I can lay my hands on at a day’s notice.” “You lie,” said Kester, emphatically. “I’ll wash that down,” said Skeggs, halting for a moment and proceeding to take a good pull at his bottle of gin. “If you so far forget yourself again, I shall begin to feel sure that you are not a St. George. What I told you was not a lie. There were four witnesses who had all a personal knowledge of a certain fact. Three of those witnesses are dead: the fourth still lives. Of the existence of this fourth witness Mother Mim never even hinted to you. It was her trump card, and she was far too cunning to let you see it.” Kester walked on in silence. He felt that just then he had hardly a word to say. Was all that he had sacrificed so much for in other ways, all that he had run such tremendous risks for, to be torn from him by the machinations of a vile old hag, and the drunken, ribald scoundrel by his side? Through what strange ambushes, through what dusky by-paths, doth Fate oft-times overtake us! We look back along the broad highway we have been traversing, and seeing no black shadow dogging our footsteps, we go rejoicing on our way; when suddenly, from some near-at-hand shrub, is shot a poisoned arrow, and the sunlight fades from our eyes for ever. “And now, after this little skirmish,” said Skeggs, “we come back to my first question: What can you afford to give me for the document in my pocket?” “Suppose I say that I will give you nothing—what then?” said Kester, sullenly. “Then I shall get my evidence together, work out my case on paper, and submit it to the heir-at-law.” “And supposing the heir-at-law, acting under advice, were to decline having anything to do with your case, as you call it?”