Yet another few seconds, and the long lithe fingers of the Swiss would have completed their deadly work. As he felt himself falling, he relaxed his grasp of the keeper's throat, in the natural instinct of self-preservation. Before his mouth reached the water, the hapless Blogg got one great draught of air into his capacious chest, but Capt had too nearly effected his work, and the keeper was practically almost insensible. The only effect of this last breath of life, that chance, and not the mercy of his adversary, had given him, was to make his muscular fingers clutch the struggling wrists of his murderer with a more vice-like grasp. The assailant and assailed had now changed places as they sank beneath the black waters. The valet's sole efforts now were directed to escape from the tenacious grip of the still struggling man. As well might a cur attempt to shake off an infuriated bull-dog who had once fixed his remorseless fangs in his throat. They sank beneath the waters, and, still violently struggling, reappeared again and again as they were spun round and round by the rushing stream. But not for long. The little packet escaped from Blogg's fingers and floated rapidly away down the stream. The would-be murderer sunk to the muddy bottom dead, and honest Blogg struck out and scrambled up the bank of the rushing Sweir. "Blame me," he cried, as he shook himself like a great water dog, "blame me if I don't think Muster Capt went clean mad; why, he nigh on strangled me," and then he stared at the hurrying, rushing waters. "Poor chap, he have gone to his account. I wonder what was in that little bundle though!" * * * * * The dark waters of the Sweir have closed for ever over the crafty wretch who had so lately held the destinies of a noble family within his grasp. Poor Lucy's secret has disappeared for ever beneath the raging waters of the little river. The oath that Lucy Warrender extracted from her cousin at the Villa Lambert more than twenty years ago will have been kept but too well, and the secret will probably remain for ever undiscovered. And will young George Haggard be any the worse, seeing that he is robbed of his birthright? We know that Lord Pit Town's will has practically made him a very wealthy man. The mills of heaven's justice grind slowly perhaps at times, but they go on turning and grinding for ever. Lucius Haggard, who in his black and bitter heart knows that he is but an undetected impostor, may never marry, may even predecease the half-brother who was born in lawful wedlock. She, the silent invalid, may yet perhaps speak, or the hollow beech tree may perchance give up its secret. * * * * *