“The man,” he said, “I have known for some time; he was useful to me abroad, and, notwithstanding his character, I rewarded him well for his services. He has since applied to me several times for money, which is spent at the gambling-house as soon as it is obtained. I believe him to be leagued with a gang of sharpers of the lowest description; and I am really unwilling any farther to supply the vicious necessities of himself and his comrades. He is a mean, mercenary rascal, who would scruple at no enormity, provided he was paid for it!” Glanville paused for a few moments, and then added, while his cheek blushed, and his voice seemed somewhat hesitating and embarrassed--“You remember Mr. Tyrrell, at Paris?” “Yes,” said I--“he is, at present, in London, and--” Glanville started as if he had been shot. “No, no,” he exclaimed, wildly--“he died at Paris, from want--from starvation.” “You are mistaken,” said I; “he is now Sir John Tyrrell, and possessed of considerable property. I saw him myself, three weeks ago.” Glanville, laying his hand upon my arm, looked in my face with a long, stern, prying gaze, and his cheek grew more ghastly and livid with every moment. At last he turned, and muttered something between his teeth; and at that moment the door opened, and Thornton was announced. Glanville sprung towards him and seized him by the throat! “Dog!” he cried, “you have deceived me--Tyrrell lives!” “Hands off!” cried the gamester, with a savage grin of defiance--“hands off! or, by the Lord that made me, you shall have gripe for gripe!” “Ho, wretch!” said Glanville, shaking him violently, while his worn and slender, yet still powerful frame, trembled with the excess of his passion; “dost thou dare to threaten me!” and with these words he flung Thornton against the opposite wall with such force, that the blood gushed out of his mouth and nostrils. The gambler rose slowly, and wiping the blood from his face, fixed his malignant and fiery eye upon his aggressor, with an expression of collected hate and vengeance, that made my very blood creep. “It is not my day now,” he said, with a calm, quiet, cold voice, and then, suddenly changing his manner, he approached me with a sort of bow, and made some remark on the weather.