“You are sunk quite low enough for anything, Mary.  You may be as bad as you like now, the world will think no worse of you than it does at present.  You have made a bad bargain, and you must stand by it.  If you cannot be the man’s wife, you must rest content with being his mistress; married or single you will always be Godfrey Hurdlestone’s better half.  Miss Whitmore is not to compare to you, in spite of her pretty waxen face, and she is not the woman to please such a wild fellow as him.  He will grow tired of her before the honeymoon is over, and you will have it all your own way.”

“Juliet Whitmore shall never be his wife, nor any other woman, while I live.  But, William, if he is as poor as you say he is, what use will it be to you my continuing to live with him in sin?  He cannot give me money if he has none for himself.”

“Hush,” said the ruffian, drawing nearer, and glancing quickly round, to be certain that they were alone.  “Did you never hear of the rich miser, Mark Hurdlestone?”

“Mr. Anthony’s father?”

“The same.  And do you not know that, were Anthony out of the way, removed by death or any other cause, Godfrey Hurdlestone would be his heir?”

“Well, what of that?  Anthony is alive and well, and may outlive us all.”

“Strong men often die very suddenly.  There is an ill-luck hangs about this same Mr. Anthony.  I prophesy that his life will be a short one.  Hark!  Was that a groan?  Father is coming to himself.”

He took the candle and went up to the bed.  The sick man still breathed, but remained in the same stupor as before.  “This cannot last long,” said his son, stooping over the corpse-like figure.  “Father was a strong man for his age, but ’tis all up with him now.  I wish he could speak to us, and tell us where he is going; but I’m thinking that we shall never hear the sound of his voice again.  The bell will toll for him before sunrise to-morrow.”

He had scarcely finished speaking when the slow, deep boom of the death-bell awoke the sluggish stillness of the heavy night.  The brother and sister started, and Mary gave a loud scream.

“Who’s dead?” said Mathews, stepping to the open door “some of the quality, or that bell would not speak out at this late hour of night.  Ha!  Mr. Godfrey Hurdlestone.  Is that you?”

“What’s wrong here?” cried Godfrey, glancing rapidly round the cottage.  “Mathews, have you heard the news?  My poor father’s dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed both his companions in a breath.  “Colonel Hurdlestone dead!  When did he die?”

“This evening, at sunset.  ’Tis a bad piece of business, Mathews.  He died insolvent, and I am left without a penny.”

“Alas, what will become of us all!” shrieked Mary, flinging herself frantically upon the bed.  “William, he has ceased to breathe.  Our father too is dead!”