Mrs. Siddons’ magnificent and appalling impersonation over, we left the house; he, melancholy and sombre as I had found him in Harley Street, and I in by no means a gay or laughing mood.  We parted at my door, and whether it was the effect of the tragedy, so wonderfully realized in its chief creation, or whether coming events do sometimes cast their shadows before, I cannot say, but I know that an hour after Rushton’s departure I was still sitting alone, my brain throbbing with excitement, and so nervous and impressionable, that a sudden, vehement knocking at the street entrance caused me to spring up from my chair with a terrified start, and before I could master the impulsive emotion, the room-door was thrown furiously open, and in reeled Arthur Rushton—­pale, haggard, wild—­his eyes ablaze with horror and affright!  Had the ghost of Duncan suddenly gleamed out of the viewless air I could not have been more startled—­awed!

“She is dead!—­poisoned!” he shrieked with maniacal fury; “killed!—­murdered!—­and by her!”

I gasped for breath, and could hardly articulate—­“What! whom?”

“My mother!” he shouted with the same furious vehemence—­“Killed! by her!  Oh, horror!—­horror!—­horror!” and exhausted by the violence of his emotions, the unfortunate gentleman staggered, shuddered violently, as if shaken by an ague fit, and fell heavily—­for I was too confounded to yield him timely aid—­on the floor.

As soon as I could rally my scattered senses, I caused medical aid to be summoned, and got him to bed.  Blood was freely taken from both arms, and he gradually recovered consciousness.  Leaving him in kind and careful hands, I hurried off to ascertain what possible foundation there could be for the terrible tidings so strangely announced.

I found the establishment in Harley Street in a state of the wildest confusion and dismay.  Mrs. Rushton was dead; that, at all events, was no figment of sudden insanity, and incredible, impossible rumors were flying from mouth to mouth with bewildering rapidity and incoherence.  The name of Mademoiselle de Tourville was repeated in every variety of abhorrent emphasis; but it was not till I obtained an interview with Mrs. Rushton’s solicitor that I could understand what really had occurred, or, to speak more properly, what was suspected.  Mrs. Rushton had made a deposition, of which Mr. Twyte related to me the essential points.  The deceased lady had gone out in her carriage with the express intention of calling on him, the solicitor, to ascertain if it would be possible to apply the Alien Act to Mademoiselle de Tourville and her father, in order to get them sent out of the country.  Mr. Twyte did not happen to be at home, and Mrs. Rushton immediately drove to the De Tourvilles’ lodgings in King Street, Holborn, with the design, she admitted, of availing herself of what she was in her own mind satisfied was the purely accidental taking away of