possessed yourself of what was mine has
delivered into your hands this valuable paper. But the subtlety is
thrown away; _I_ am cognizant of its existence; _I_ have even shown it
to another; and on _me_ it depends whether you live here as a master, or
walk forth in all the exposure of a cheat."

The nature of this announcement, its possible truth, added to the
consummate effrontery of him who made it, contributed to render Cashel
silent, for he was actually stunned by what he heard. Linton saw the
effect, but mistook its import. He believed that some thought of
a compromise was passing through a mind where vengeance alone
predominated; and in this error he drew nearer to him, and in a voice of
cool and calm persuasion, added,--

"That _you_ could pilot the course through all these difficulties, no
one knows better than yourself to be impossible. There is but one living
able to do so, and _I_ am that one."

Cashel started back, and Linton went on,--

"There is no question of friendship between us here. It is a matter of
pure interest and mutual convenience that binds us. Agree to my terms,
and you are still the owner of the estate; reject them, and you are as
poor as poverty and exposure can make you."

"Scoundrel!" said Cashel. It was all that he could utter; the fulness of
his passion had nearly choked him, as, taking a heavy riding-glove from
the table, he struck Linton with it across the face. "If there be any
manhood in such a wretch, let this provoke it!"

Linton's hand grasped the weapon he carried within his coat, but with a
quick, short stroke, Cashel struck down his arm, and it fell powerless
to his side.

"You shall pay dearly for this--dearly, by heaven!" cried Linton, as he
retired towards the door.

"Go, sir," said Cashel, flinging it wide open, "and go quickly, or I may
do that I should be sorry for."

"You have done that you will be sorry for, if it costs me my life's
blood to buy it." And with these words, delivered in a voice guttural
from rage, Linton disappeared, and Cashel stood alone in the centre of
the room, overwhelmed by the terrible conflict of his passions.

The room littered with papers, the open boxes scattered on every side,
his own hands cut and bleeding from the broken glass of the window, his
dress torn from the recent exertion, were evidences of the past; and it
seemed as though, without such proofs, he could not credit his memory,
as to events so strange and stunning.

To