He darted into the deep shadow of a buttress upon the terrace, and, crouching, glided, like a panther stealing after his prey, up to the spot where he had seen the phantom-like object disappear. He always carried a brace of small pocket pistols with him. It had been his custom in India, when stationed among the hill tribes, and he did so in England. He had never hesitated to shoot one of the natives, even upon a trifling pretext: he would not have hesitated much to do a similar thing in England, but that the law is inconveniently sensitive upon that point. Now he seemed to feel himself justified in using the deadly weapon, because it would be discharged at some prowler seeking plunder. Such, at least, was the reason he should offer for his murderous act. That he arranged with himself. He drew from his breast pocket a pistol, and, upon observing a man, wrapped in a loose cloak, silently approach from the precincts of a turreted wing of the mansion, he felt convinced, though it was too dark to see his features, that he knew the stranger. He raised his pistol and took a careful aim. But himself and purpose were detected, and the stranger sprang hastily forward towards him. Mires pulled the trigger. A flash of light, and a report followed. At the same instant he felt a heavy blow strike him upon the temple, which hurled him over the balustrade that edged the terrace, and he fell among the flowers beneath, on to the soft earth, and lay there stunned. When he recovered, the servants were closing up the house. With a brain racking and splitting, he rose up. His hand yet grasped the pistol; his finger still curled round the trigger. Had he slain the man at whom he had fired? He gazed around him, and listened. There was no trace of excitement either within or without the building; no sign that the discharge of the pistol had been heard, or the short violent struggle between himself and the stranger witnessed. He shook himself, and hastily brushed the evidences of his fall from his attire. He slowly ascended the steps of the terrace, feeling cold and shivering, while his limbs ached as though he had been beaten all over. He threw a glance at the spot where he had fired at the stranger, but failed to perceive a prostrate human body, although he could not believe that he had missed his aim. He entered the house, and then retired to his room, to pass the night in profitless speculation and mystified wonder. That he had encountered young Vivian, he felt convinced; but, so far as he knew, only to his own discomfiture: beyond, all was a chaos of doubt, presumption, and ardent but malicious wishes.