"No, no, no! Leave me, Edna, and do as I bid you." She obeyed, and Mr. Heath made a struggle to regain his self-possession. When the servant came, he directed him to bring a decanter of brandy. As soon as it was brought, with a trembling hand he poured out a tumblerful and gulped it down. It seemed to affect him no more than so much water, and pacing the room, he forced a laugh as he soliloquized: "Idiot, idiot, and threefold fool! What is it to me that this vagabond and ruffian has met his deserts? Nothing, surely nothing. Then why should I worry about it? Why should I be tormented and maddened by it? Those who murder must expect to be hung. A man is responsible only for his own crimes--the crimes he himself commits, and surely none other, none other. What a monstrous, cruel, wicked doctrine it would be that would hold men to account for the remote and indirect consequences of trivial and commonplace acts. Skilful lawyers cheat justice every day; thousands and thousands of villains have been rescued from the clutches of the law by their paid advocates, and set loose on society, to again plunder and kill. As well hold these advocates responsible for the crimes subsequently committed by their clients, as to tax me with--pshaw! it's too absurd to deserve a moment's thought. What a simpleton I am to quake like a puny child because a low ruffian meets his merited fate! How ridiculous--absurd--preposterous! No, no; I am getting old and childish--old and childish," he continued to croon, until interrupted by the entrance of a servant with luncheon, who was quickly bidden to withdraw. The luncheon remained untouched.