e I had passed many an evening with old Frank; and, supposing the
gardener had taken possession of it, I opened the door. Close to the
window two persons were sitting, so deeply engaged in conversation that
they did not remark my entrance, and I took the opportunity of observing
them at leisure. They were both young men--both tall and good-looking;
one remarkably dark, with great umbrageous whiskers and mustaches; the
other a chestnut-haired, fresh-complexioned youth, so like poor old
Frank in the set on of his head and breadth of his shoulders, that I
knew in a moment it could be no one but his son. They seemed both very
much excited about something; but from the whispered tone of their
conversation, it was difficult to make out what it was. The dark man,
who was six or seven years older than his companion, had apparently been
saying something that shocked the other, for he clenched his hand, and
threw his eyes despairingly to the ceiling; and no wonder, for the words
I heard, as I advanced from the screen at the door, were enough to raise
a shudder in any person's breast. He said--

"I had him murdered in the shooting-box."

"But why?" enquired Frank Edwards, looking less startled than could be
expected.

"Why? Because Isabella could not be happy while he lived."

"Recollect I had no hand in it," said Frank. "I wouldn't have agreed to
it on any account, and told you so before you did it."

Great heavens! what a secret to be thrust upon me! and what an
introduction to the son of my poor friend--the accomplice of a
murderer--who had evidently been consulted about the crime, and though
he certainly had protested against it, had allowed it to be carried into
effect! I was hesitating whether I should not retire at once, when Frank
turned round and saw me. He rose, and received the apologies I muttered
for my intrusion with the most astonishing self-command. I determined to
conceal my knowledge of their conversation from them; and really,
looking at the clear open countenance of the boy, it was difficult to
believe that he knew any thing of so shocking a kind. I was introduced
to the other, Mr Percy Marvale, and saw so much Italian, or perhaps
gipsy, blood in his dark skin, and such a fierce expression in his
coal-black eyes, that I was not so much surprised at his being
implicated in the fearful deed. He looked just like one of the fellows
on the stage who cut throats in a heroic fashion on the slightest
provocation.