“Another act in this tragedy!  Gone, I suppose, to join his accomplice on the Pacific coast, and share his plunder,” said the man, passionately.

“You are using very strong language, sir!” suggested one.

“Not stronger than the case justifies.  For my own assurance, I sent out a secret agent, and I have my first letter from him this morning.  He arrived just in time to see our splendid schemes dissolve in smoke.  Lyon is a swindler, Fenwick an accomplice, and we a parcel of easy fools.  The published intelligence we have to-day is no darker than the truth.  The bubble burst by the unexpected seizure of our lands, implements, and improvements, by the—­Government.  It contained nothing but air!  Fenwick and Lyon had just played one of their reserved cards—­it had something to do with the flooding of a shaft, which would delay results, and require more capital—­when the impatient grantors of the land foreclosed every thing.  From the hour this catastrophe became certain, Lyon was no more seen.  He was fully prepared for the emergency.”

In confirmation of this, letters giving the minutest particulars were shown, thus corroborating the worst, and extinguishing the feeblest rays of hope.

All was too true.  The brilliant bubble had indeed burst, and not the shadow of a substance remained.  When satisfied of this beyond all doubt, Markland, on whose mind suffering had produced a temporary stupor, sought his room at the hotel, and remained there for several days, so hopeless, weak, and undecided, that he seemed almost on the verge of mental imbecility.  How could he return home and communicate the dreadful intelligence to his family?  How could he say to them, that, for his transgressions, they must go forth from their beautiful Eden?

“No—­no!” he exclaimed, wringing his hands in anguish.  “I can never tell them this!  I can never look into their faces!  Never! never!”

The moment had come, and the tempter was at his ear.  There was, first, the remote suggestion of self-banishment in some distant land, where the rebuking presence of his injured family could never haunt him.  But he felt that a life in this world, apart from them, would be worse than death.

“I am mocked!  I am cursed!” he exclaimed, bitterly.

The tempter was stealthily doing his work.

“Oh! what a vain struggle is this life!  What a fitful fever!  Would that it were over, and I at rest!”

The tempter was leading his thoughts at will.

“How can I meet my wronged family?  How can I look my friends in the face?  I shall be to the world only a thing of pity or reproach.  Can I bear this?  No—­no—­I cannot—­I cannot!”

Magnified by the tempter, the consequence looked appalling.  He felt that he had not strength to meet it—­that all of manhood would be crushed out of him.

“What then?” He spoke the words almost aloud, and held his breath, as if for answer.