compensate him for this act of larceny.  In a breast-pocket, however, inside his waistcoat, he found pinned to the lining a note—­a pound note—­on the back of which was jotted a brief memorandum of the day on which it was written, and the person from whom he had received it.  To this was added a second memorandum, in the following words:  “Mem.  This note may yet be useful to myself if I could get a sincere friend that would find out the man whose name—­Thomas Skipton—­is written here upon it.  He is the man I want, for I know his signature.”

No sooner had the baronet read these lines, than he examined the several names on the note, and on coming to one which was underlined evidently by the same ink that was used by Fenton in the memoranda, his eyes gleamed with delight, and he waved it to and fro with a grim and hideous triumph, such as the lurid light of his foul principles flashing through such eyes, and animating such features as his, could only express.

“Unhappy wretch,” thought he, looking upon his unconscious victim, “it is evident that you are doomed; this man is the only individual living over whom I have no control, that could give any trace of you; neither of the other two, for their own sakes, dare speak.  Even fate is against you; that fate which has consigned this beggarly representative of wealth to my hands, through your own instrumentality.  I now feel confident; nay, I am certain that my projects will and must succeed.  The affairs of this world are regulated unquestionably by the immutable decrees of destiny.  What is to be will be; and I, in putting this wretched, drunken, mad, and besotted being out of my way, am only an instrument in the hands of that destiny myself.  The blame then is not mine, but that of the law which constrains—­forces me to act the part I am acting, a part which was allotted to me from the beginning; and this reflection fills me with consolation.”

He then re-examined the note, put it into a particular fold of his pocket-book which had before been empty, in order to keep it distinct, and once more thrusting it into his pocket, buttoned it carefully up, extinguished the lantern, and laid himself back in the corner of the carriage, in which position he reclined, meditating upon the kind partiality of destiny in his favor, the virtuous tendencies of his own ambition, and the admirable, because successful, means by which he was bringing them about.

In this manner they proceeded until they reached the entrance of the next town, when the baronet desired Gillespie to stop.  “Go forward,” said he, “and order a chaise and pair without delay.  I think, however, you will find them ready for you; and if Corbet is there, desire him to return with you.  He has already had his instructions.  I am sick of this work, Gillespie; and I assure you it is not for the son of a common friend that I would forego my necessary rest, to sit at such an hour with a person who is both mad and drunk.  What is friendship, however, if we neglect its duties?  Care and medical skill may enable this unfortunate young man to recover his reason, and take a respectable position in the world yet.  Go now and make no delay.  I shall take charge of this poor fellow and the horses until you return.  But, mark me, my name is not to be breathed to mortal, under a penalty that you will find a dreadful one, should you incur it.”