“Among your friend Jones’s papers. You scoundrel!” he went on, with a sudden change of manner, “now perhaps you begin to understand why I have hunted you down step by step: why for thirty years I have waited, and watched, and failed, and at last succeeded. It is for the sake of Mary Atterleigh. It was you who, infuriated because she would have none of such a coarse brute, set the man Jones on to her. It was you who lent him the money with which to buy her from old Atterleigh. There lies the proof before you. By the way, Jones need never have repaid you that ten thousand pounds, for it was marriage-brokage, and therefore not recoverable at law. It was you, I say, who were the first cause of my life being laid waste, and who nearly drove me to the madhouse, ay, who did drive Mary, my betrothed wife, into the arms of that fellow, whence, God be praised! she soon passed to her rest.” Mr. Cardus paused, breathing quick with suppressed rage and excitement; the large white eyebrows contracted till they nearly met, and, abandoning his usual habit, he looked straight into the eyes of the abject creature in the chair before him. “It’s a long while ago, Cardus; can’t you forgive, and let bygones be bygones?” “Forgive! Yes, for my own sake, I could forgive; but for her sake, whom you first dishonoured and then killed, I will never forgive. Where are your companions in guilt? Jones is dead; I ruined him. Atterleigh is there; I did not ruin him, because, after all, he was the author of Mary’s life; but his ill-gotten gains did him no good; a higher power than mine took vengeance on his crime, and I saved him from the madhouse. And Jones’s children, they are here too, for once they lay beneath _her_ breast. But do you think that I will spare you, you coarse arrogant knave—you, who spawned the plot? No, not if it were to cost me my own life, would I forego one jot or tittle of my revenge!” At that moment Mr. Cardus happened to look up, and saw through the glass part of the door of his office, of which the curtain was partially drawn, the wild-looking head of Hard-riding Atterleigh. He appeared to be looking through the door, for his eyes, in which there was a very peculiar look, were fixed intently upon Mr. Cardus’s face. When he saw that he was observed, he vanished. “Now go,” said the lawyer sternly to the prostrate De Talor; “and never let me see your face again!” “But I haven’t any money; where am I to go?” groaned De Talor. “Wherever you like, Mr. de Talor—this is a free country; but, if I had control of your destination, it should be—to the devil!” The wretched man staggered to his feet. “All right, Cardus; I’ll go, I’ll go. You’ve got it all your own way now. You are damned hard, you are; but perhaps you’ll get it taken out of you some day. I’m glad you never got hold of Mary; it must have been pleasant to you to see her marry Jones.”