"Silence, miscreant!" exclaimed the highwayman, in a tone and with a manner of terrible earnestness. "Ah! I have doubtless surprised you by this announcement—this denunciation of a secret that you little deemed to be known to me!" "My God! who are you?—how came you to learn that secret?" demanded the old fence, writhing in the agony of suspense and wild excitement. "I will tell you who I am presently," was the answer: "and you will also see wherefore I have compelled you to conduct me hither this night." "Then you _had_ another motive, besides the mere wish to become acquainted with my abode?" said Old Death, perceiving that he had been over-reached in this respect—as indeed he had for the last half-hour suspected. "Fool!" ejaculated Rainford, contemptuously: "of what use was it to me to know where you lived, or to visit your secret repositories of plunder, unless I had some essentially important motive? The fact of your having discovered my abode gave me in truth but little uneasiness—for I could have moved elsewhere in a few hours. That fact, however, furnished me with an apparent excuse to force you to conduct me to _your_ den; for I knew that were I to acquaint you with my real object in coming here, you would have risked every thing to prevent it!" "Again I say, who _are_ you?" demanded Old Death, a kind of superstitious awe now taking possession of him. "Listen to me," said Rainford. "Nearly thirty-one years have elapsed since you sold your half-sister Octavia Manners for the gold which laid the foundation of the immense fortune you have amassed. Yes—this atrocious deed was perpetrated; and one of England's proudest peers was the purchaser of that young creature's virtue—for she was but sixteen, old man, when her ruin was effected through your vile agency! She was sold to the embrace of a man old enough to be her father—aye, even her grandfather;—and the affection which she entertained for a deserving youth in her own sphere of life, was blighted—crushed! She died of a broken heart—leaving behind her a male child whom _you_ swore to protect!" Old Death seemed to recoil from this averment as from a hideous spectre suddenly starting up before him; for, in spite of his confirmed wickedness, the present topic had awakened painful reminiscences and compunctious feelings within him. "Yes," continued Rainford, fixing his eyes reproachfully upon the old fence; "she forgave you on her death-bed—forgave you the wrong that you did her,—forgave you, because you promised to make amends for your conduct towards her by your behaviour to the babe whom she left to your charge." "And who can say that I did not fulfil my promise?" demanded Old Death, trembling in suspense at what might be the nature of the reply which Rainford would give.