“A word to you, now,” he added, turning toward Swartz. “I shut you up here to starve you to death because you were trusted and have betrayed me. Listen, and I will tell you how. You are greedy for gold, and this greed has tempted you to an act which will be your destruction. In Pennsylvania, one night, just before the battle of Gettysburg, you were at my house, and stole a paper from madam, who was collecting every thing to hide it from the enemy. No matter how I know that; I have made the discovery, and you deny it--refusing to deliver up that paper, which you state you never had, and consequently have not in your possession. In saying that, you lied! You stole that paper, and promise yourself that you will sell it for a large sum of money--you have already been bargaining, and have tried to finish the business. “Well, that paper is interesting--to madam at least; and she has kept it with care from the eyes of the very person you would sell it to! Folded with it was another paper which is no less valuable to me. Thus, you see, that we are interested; and we will probably be informed in a day from this time where to find both the documents--as you will then be starving, and will reveal every thing! “You think me jesting, perhaps--you imagine I will spare you. Undeceive yourself--your life is a small matter compared with these two papers. “One is the certificate of madam’s marriage with your very humble servant; the other the letter which I took from Mr. Davenant’s desk that night, in which I confess myself the--well! the murderer--of George Conway!” XXXII. A PISTOL-SHOT. Darke’s deep and gloomy voice ceased to resound, and for a moment the silence of the apartment was only disturbed by the slight creaking made by the chair of the woman, as she quietly rocked backward and forward. Swartz had risen to his feet while Darke was uttering his final words. With clasped hands, and trembling lips, he was about to throw himself upon his knees;--when suddenly a shot resounded without, a cry was heard, and then this was succeeded by rapid firing, mingled with hoof-strokes, in the immediate vicinity of the house. Darke rose to his feet, and in two strides was at the window. “An attack!” he exclaimed. “Can the friends of this carrion be trying to catch me!” And springing toward the door, he tore it open. Suddenly, another thought seemed to come to him. Returning at a bound to the side of Swartz, he seized him by the throat, dragged him through the door, and rushed down the steps, still dragging the unfortunate man. As he passed me, I drew my revolver and fired on him, but the ball did not strike him. Then I saw the woman dart past like a shadow. When Nighthawk and myself reached the foot of the stairs, she and Darke were already in the saddle.