‘By Heaven!’ he muttered to himself, ‘I’ll play my last card, ‘and hazard all upon it. Let Garth Egerton look to himself, for now it is a struggle to the death. I will not fall alone.’ CHAPTER LXI. A LATE VISITOR FOR MR. EGERTON. Squire Heritage, or Edward Marston, as we may now again call him, leapt into a cab when he left Preene, and bade the man drive to Birnie’s address. It was then close on midnight. He was playing a desperate game in venturing thus into the lion’s den, but it was the last chance left him. If he could silence Egerton he might purchase a respite from Heckett even now. Heckett was evidently dying, and had no longer fear or trouble for himself. He had escaped from the Serpentine that night, and had made Egerton the instrument of his vengeance. But the blow had not actually fallen, and he might yet stay the uplifted hand. If he could, there might be some peace in store for him. He did not care for himself. He was sick and tired of it all. His punishment was heavier than he could bear; but for Ruth’s sake he would strive and struggle yet to fight against fate. Let the shame be spared to her of being a felon’s wife. ‘Poor Ruth! Noble Ruth!’ he thought. ‘She knows me now in all my hideous impurity, and yet she forgives me. Oh, how different things might have been!’ Ah, me! that ‘might have been!’ It is the anthem of the lost soul, the despairing cry of the sinner caught in the toils of his sin. It was a little past midnight when Marston rang the doctor’s bell, but the lights were still burning in the house. ‘I want to see Mr. Egerton, if he is in, on important business.’ ‘He is not in yet, sir,’ said the servant. ‘He and the doctor are at the theatre, and have not returned yet.’ ‘I will wait,’ said Marston, brushing past the man into the hall. ‘My business with him is of the utmost importance.’ ‘Will you step into the library, sir?’ said the servant, overawed by the manner of this imperious visitor. Marston followed the Servant, who turned up the lights and left him. The evening papers, unfolded, were lying on the table. Marston picked up one casually, and glanced along the columns. Suddenly his eye was arrested by a name, and he read the paragraph carefully. It was headed, ‘A Message from the Sea,’ and ran as follows: ‘This morning, as some fishermen were off the coast of————, one of them picked up a bottle which was floating past them and brought it ashore. On opening it it was found to contain a piece of paper, on which was something written in pencil, of which the following words only are decipherable, the salt water having soaked through a faulty cork and obliterated the remainder: ‘“_On board the ‘“The ship is sinking rapidly. I, Gurt am about to die, do solemnly declare tha of September, 18—, I stabbed my cousin, Ra house, kept by a man named Heck I freely make this confession, an_