With a dexterous sleight-of-hand movement, the man picked up the whirling nickle and laid it flat on the table before him. “A fellow whose whole fortune is represented by a coin like that”—tapping the piece significantly—“is not as easily convinced as a man of your means, perhaps. But if I should be brought to own that I had made a mistake in my man, I should still feel myself justified in proceeding against him, since my very accusation of him seems to be enough to arouse such interest on the part of his friends.” “Wretch!” leaped to Mr. Sylvester’s lips, but he did not speak it. “His friends,” declared he, “have most certainly a great interest in his reputation and his happiness; but they never will pay any thing upon coercion to preserve the one or to insure the other.” “They won’t!” And for the first time Roger Holt slightly quavered. “A man’s honor and happiness are much, and he will struggle long before he will consent to part from them. But a citizen of a great town like this, owes something to his fellows, and submitting to blackmail is but a poor precedent to set. You will have to proceed as you will, Mr. Holt; neither my nephew nor myself, have any money to give you.” The glare in the man’s eyes was like that of an aroused tiger. “Do you mean to say,” cried he, “that you will not give from your abundance, a paltry thousand dollars to save one of your blood from a suspicion that will never leave him, _never leave him_ to the end of his miserable days?” “I mean to say that not one cent will pass from me to you in payment of a silence, which as a gentleman, you ought to feel it incumbent upon you to preserve unasked, if only to prove to your fellow-men that you have not entirely lost all the instincts of the caste to which you once belonged. Not that I look for anything so disinterested from you,” he went on. “A man who could enter the home of a respectable gentleman, and under cover of a brotherly regard, lure into degradation and despair, the woman who was at once its ornament and pride, cannot be expected to practice the virtues of ordinary manhood, much less those of a gentleman and a Christian. He is a wretch, who, whatever his breeding or antecedents, is open to nothing but execration and contempt.” With an oath and a quick backward spring, Roger Holt cried out, “Who are you, and by what right do you come here to reproach me with a matter dead and buried, by heaven, a dozen years ago?” “The right of one who, though a stranger, knows well what you are and what you have done. Colonel Japha himself is dead, but the avenger of his honor yet lives! Roger Holt, _where is Jacqueline Japha_?” The force with which this was uttered, seemed to confound the man. For a moment he stood silent, his eye upon his guest, then a subtle change took place in his expression; he smiled with a slow devilish meaning, and tossing his head with an airy gesture, lightly remarked: