“I would certainly rather transfer the hemp collar to his neck, if it could be safely accomplished.  But how can it be brought about?”

“The devil will help us at a pinch.  I have scarcely turned it over in my mind.  But I’m sure your heart would fail you, Godfrey, if it came to murder.”

“Do you take me for a coward?”

“Not exactly.  I was making some allowance for natural affection.”

“Pshaw!” muttered his companion.  “Only give me the chance.  Affection!  What affection do I owe to father or son?  Anthony robbed me of my father’s heart, and now stands between me and my uncle’s fortune.”

“I owe Anthony something on my own account, if it were only for the contempt with which he treated me in the presence of Miss Whitmore.  By-the-by, Mr. Godfrey, are all your hopes in that quarter at an end?”

“Oh, hang her!  Don’t name her, Mathews.  I would rather have Mary without a farthing than be domineered over by that pretty prude, and her hideous old aunt.  I believe I might have the old maid for the asking—­ha! ha! ha!”

“Mr. Godfrey,” said Mathews, taking no notice of his mistimed mirth, “I would advise you, as a friend, not to mention our designs on the old miser to Mary.”

“She won’t peach.”

“I’d not trust her.  Women are strange creatures.  They will often do the most wicked things when their own interests and passions are concerned; and, at other times, will sacrifice their best friends, from a foolish qualm of conscience, or out of a mistaken feeling of benevolence.  If you wish our scheme to be successful, don’t let Mary into the secret.”

A wild laugh sounded in his ears:  both started; and, on turning round, beheld Mary standing quietly beside them.  Mathews surveyed his sister with a stern searching glance.  She smiled contemptuously; but drew back, as if she feared him.

“Did you overhear our conversation, Mary?”

“I can keep my own secrets,” said the girl, sullenly.  “I don’t want to be burthened with yours.  They are not worth the trouble of keeping.  My sleep is bad enough already.  A knowledge of your deeds, William, would not make it sounder.”

“It would make you sleep so soundly that evil thoughts would not be likely to keep you awake,” said her brother, clenching his fist in her face.  “Betray but one syllable of what you have overheard, and your bed is prepared for you.”

“I do not care how soon,” said Mary; “if you hold out such a temptation, I don’t know what I might be tempted to do.  They say that the sins of the murdered are all visited upon the murderer.  What a comfort it would be to transfer mine to you.”  This was said in a tone of bitter irony; and, however unwilling to betray himself, it seemed to produce a strange effect upon the mind of the ruffian.

“Who talks of murder?” he said.  “You are dreaming.  Go to your bed, Mary.  It is late; and don’t forget to say your prayers.”