"'Tis undoubtedly rather a serious business on which we are now entering," said Gammon; "and I have always admired a saying which you years ago told me of that great man Machiavel"---- [Oh, Gammon! Gammon! You well know that poor old Mr. Quirk never heard of the name of that same Machiavel till this moment!]-- "That 'when great affairs are stirring, a master-move should be confined to the master-mind that projects it.' I understand! I see! I will not, therefore, inquire into the precise means by which I am satisfied you will make it appear, in due time (while I am engaged getting up the subordinate, but very harassing details of the general case), that _Harry Dreddlington died_ BEFORE _the 7th of August, 1742_." Here, taking out his watch, he suddenly added--"Bless me, Mr. Quirk, how time passes!--Two o'clock! I ought to have been at Messrs. Gregson's a quarter of an hour ago." "Stop--a moment or two can't signify! It--it," said Quirk, hesitatingly, "it was _you_, wasn't it, that thought of the tombstone?" "I, my dear Mr. Quirk"--interrupted Gammon, with a look of astonishment and deference. "Come, come--honor among thieves, you know, Gammon!" said Quirk, trying to laugh. "No--it shall never be said that I attempted to take the credit of"---- commenced Gammon; when a clerk entering, put an end to the colloquy between the partners, each of whom, presently, was sitting alone in his own room--for Gammon found that he was too late to think of keeping his engagement with Messrs. Gregson; if indeed he had ever made any--which, in fact, he had _not_. Mr. Quirk sat in a musing posture for nearly half an hour after he and Gammon had separated. "Gammon _is_ a deep one! I'll be shot if ever there was his equal," said Quirk to himself, at length; and starting off his chair, with his hands crossed behind him, he walked softly to and fro. "I know what he's driving at--though he thought I didn't! He'd let me scratch my hands in getting the blackberries, and then he'd come smiling in to eat 'em! But--share and share alike--share profit, share danger, master Gammon;--you may find that Caleb Quirk is a match for Oily Gammon--I'll have you in for it, one way or another!" Here occurred a long pause in his thoughts, "Really I doubt the thing's growing unmanageable--the prize can't be worth the risk!--_Risk_, indeed--'fore gad--it's neither more nor less than"---- Here a certain picture hanging, covered with black crape, in the drawing-room at Alibi House, seemed to have glided down from its station, and to be hanging close before his eyes, with the crape drawn aside--a ghastly object--- eugh! He shuddered, and involuntarily closed his eyes. "How devilish odd that I should just _now_ have happened to think of it!" he inwardly exclaimed, sinking into his chair in a sort of cold sweat.