against myself, if I had not been stayed by the cry of my poor victim, who implored me to hold my hand.  ‘Do not add crime to crime,’ she cried; ’you have done me grievous wrong.  I have not, indeed, loved you, because my affections were not under my control, but I have been ever true to you, and this I declare with my latest breath.  I freely forgive you, and pray God to turn your heart.’  And with these words she expired.  I was roused from the stupefaction into which I was thrown by the appearance of the servants.  Heaping execrations upon me, they strove to seize me; but I broke through them, and gained a garden at the back of my mansion, which was situated on the bank of the Thames, not far from Chelsea.  This garden ran down to the river side, and was defended by a low wall, which I leapt, and plunged into the stream.  A boat was instantly sent in pursuit of me, and a number of persons ran along the banks, all eager for my capture.  But being an excellent swimmer, I tried to elude them, and as I never appeared again, it was supposed I was drowned.”

“And Nizza, or as I ought now to call her, Isabella, was confided, I suppose, to the piper?” inquired Leonard.

“She was confided to his helpmate,” replied Thirlby, “who had been nurse to my wife.  Mike Macascree was one of my father’s servants, and was in his younger days a merry, worthless fellow.  The heavy calamity under which he now labours had not then befallen him.  On taking charge of my daughter, his wife received certain papers substantiating the child’s origin, together with a miniature, and a small golden amulet.  The papers and miniature were delivered by her on her death-bed to the piper, who showed them to me to-night.”

“And the amulet I myself have seen,” remarked Leonard.

“To resume my own history,” said Thirlby—­“after the dreadful catastrophe I have related, I remained concealed in London for some months, and was glad to find the report of my death generally believed.  I then passed over into Holland, where I resided for several years, in the course of which time I married the widow of a rich merchant, who died soon after our union, leaving me one child.”  And he covered his face with his hands to hide his emotion.  After awhile he proceeded: 

“Having passed many years, as peacefully as one whose conscience was so heavily burdened as mine could hope to pass them, in Amsterdam, I last summer brought my daughter, around whom my affections were closely twined, to London, and took up my abode in the eastern environs of the city.  There again I was happy—­too happy!—­until at last the plague came.  But why should I relate the rest of my sad story?” he added, in a voice suffocated with emotion—­“you know it as well as I do.”

“You said you had a son,” observed Leonard, after a pause—­“Is he yet living?”

“He is,” replied Thirlby, a shade passing over his countenance.  “On my return to England I communicated to him through Judith Malmayns, who is my foster-sister, that I was still alive, telling him the name I had adopted, and adding, I should never disturb him in the possession of his title and estates.”