“I will, and you can pursue your watch at the same time, while I beguile its weariness.”—­“Be it so.”

“You knew me years ago, when I had all the chances in the world of becoming respectable and respected.  I did, indeed; and you may, therefore, judge of my surprise when, some years since, being in the metropolis, I met you, and you shunned my company.”—­“Yes; but, at last, you found out why it was that I shunned your company.”

“I did.  You yourself told me once that I met you, and would not leave you, but insisted upon your dining with me.  Then you told me, when you found that I would take no other course whatever, that you were no other than the—­the——­“—­

“Out with it!  I can bear to hear it now better than I could then!  I told you that I was the common hangman of London!”

“You did, I must confess, to my most intense surprise.”

“Yes, and yet you kept to me; and, but that I respected you too much to allow you to do so, you would, from old associations, have countenanced me; but I could not, and I would not, let you do so.  I told you then that, although I held the terrible office, that I had not been yet called upon to perform its loathsome functions.  Soon—­soon—­come the first effort—­it was the last!”

“Indeed!  You left the dreadful trade?”

“I did—­I did.  But what I want to tell you, for I could not then, was why I went ever to it.  The wounds my heart had received were then too fresh to allow me to speak of them, but I will tell you now.  The story is a brief one, Mr. Chillingworth.  I pray you be seated.”

CHAPTER LXXII.

THE STRANGE STORY.—­THE ARRIVAL OF THE MOB AT THE HALL, AND THEIR DISPERSION.

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“You will find that the time which elapsed since I last saw you in London, to have been spent in an eventful, varied manner.”—­“You were in good circumstances then,” said Mr. Chillingworth.—­“I was, but many events happened after that which altered the prospect; made it even more gloomy than you can well imagine:  but I will tell you all candidly, and you can keep watch upon Bannerworth Hall at the same time.  You are well aware that I was well to do, and had ample funds, and inclination to spend them.”—­“I recollect:  but you were married then, surely?”—­“I was,” said the stranger, sadly, “I was married then.”—­“And now?”—­“I am a widower.”  The stranger seemed much moved, but, after a moment or so, he resumed—­“I am a widower now; but how that event came about is partly my purpose to tell you.  I had not married long—­that is very long—­for I have but one child, and she is not old, or of an age to know much more than what she may be taught; she is still in the course of education.  I was early addicted to gamble; the dice had its charms, as all those who have ever engaged in play but too well know; it is perfectly fascinating.”—­“So I have heard,” said Mr. Chillingworth; “though, for myself, I found a wife and professional pursuits quite incompatible with any pleasure that took either time or resources.”—­