nguidly.

The other shook his head negatively.

"Why, the delay is clearly in your favor, man. If they were strong in
their convictions, they 'd have brought him in guilty an hour ago."

"That is my opinion too," said Jennings.

"Well, here goes. Two fifties be it," cried Upton.

Frobisher took out his memorandum-book and wrote something with a
pencil.

"Is n't that it?" said he, showing the lines to Upton.

"Just so. 'Wilful murder,'" muttered the other, reading.

"You have a great 'pull' upon me, Upton," said Frobisher; "by Jove! if
you were generous, you'd give me odds."

"How so?"

"Why, you saw his face since the affair, and I did n't."

"It would need a better physiognomist than I am to read it. He looked
exactly as he always does; a thought paler, perhaps, but no other
change."

"Here comes a fellow with news," said Jennings, throwing open the
window. "I say, my man, is it over?"

"No, sir; the jury want to see one of Mr. Cashel's boots."

Jennings closed the sash, and, lighting a cigar, sat down in an
easy-chair. A desultory conversation here arose among some of the
younger military men whether a coroner's verdict were final, and whether
a "fellow could be hanged" when it pronounced him guilty; the astute
portion of the debaters inclining to the opinion that although this
was not the case in England, such would be "law" in Ireland. Then the
subject of confiscation was entertained, and various doubts and surmises
arose as to what would become of Tubbermore when its proprietor had been
executed; with sly jests about the reversionary rights of the Crown,
and the magnanimity of extending mercy at the price of a great landed
estate. These filled up the time for an hour or so more, interspersed
with conjectures as to Cashel's present frame of mind, and considerable
wonderment why he had n't "bolted" at once.

At last Upton's groom was seen approaching at a tremendous pace; and in
a few minutes after he had pulled up at the door, and dismounting with a
spring, hastened into the house.

"Well, Robert, how did it go?" cried Upton, as, followed by the rest, he
met him in the hall.

"You 've lost, sir," said the man, wiping his forehead.

"Confound the rascals! But what are the words of the verdict?"

"'Wilful murder,' sir."

"Of course," said Frobisher, coolly; "they could give no other."

"It's no use betting against you," cried Upton, pettishly. "You are the
luckiest dog in Europe."

"Come,