“And do you know, Cashel,” cried Linton, assuming a voice of slow and most deliberate utterance, “that your own title to this property is as valueless and as worthless as that document you hold there? Do you know that there is in existence a paper which, produced in an open court of justice, would reduce you to beggary, and stamp you, besides, as an impostor? It may be that you are well aware of that fact; and that the same means by which you have possessed yourself of what was mine has delivered into your hands this valuable paper. But the subtlety is thrown away; _I_ am cognizant of its existence; _I_ have even shown it to another; and on _me_ it depends whether you live here as a master, or walk forth in all the exposure of a cheat.” The nature of this announcement, its possible truth, added to the consummate effrontery of him who made it, contributed to render Cashel silent, for he was actually stunned by what he heard. Linton saw the effect, but mistook its import. He believed that some thought of a compromise was passing through a mind where vengeance alone predominated; and in this error he drew nearer to him, and in a voice of cool and calm persuasion, added,-- “That _you_ could pilot the course through all these difficulties, no one knows better than yourself to be impossible. There is but one living able to do so, and _I_ am that one.” Cashel started back, and Linton went on,-- “There is no question of friendship between us here. It is a matter of pure interest and mutual convenience that binds us. Agree to my terms, and you are still the owner of the estate; reject them, and you are as poor as poverty and exposure can make you.” “Scoundrel!” said Cashel. It was all that he could utter; the fulness of his passion had nearly choked him, as, taking a heavy riding-glove from the table, he struck Linton with it across the face. “If there be any manhood in such a wretch, let this provoke it!” Linton's hand grasped the weapon he carried within his coat, but with a quick, short stroke, Cashel struck down his arm, and it fell powerless to his side. “You shall pay dearly for this--dearly, by heaven!” cried Linton, as he retired towards the door. “Go, sir,” said Cashel, flinging it wide open, “and go quickly, or I may do that I should be sorry for.” “You have done that you will be sorry for, if it costs me my life's blood to buy it.” And with these words, delivered in a voice guttural from rage, Linton disappeared, and Cashel stood alone in the centre of the room, overwhelmed by the terrible conflict of his passions. The room littered with papers, the open boxes scattered on every side, his own hands cut and bleeding from the broken glass of the window, his dress torn from the recent exertion, were evidences of the past; and it seemed as though, without such proofs, he could not credit his memory, as to events so strange and stunning.