Graspum,” he says; “act not the child, but meet the consequences like a hero:  strange is it, that you, who have sold twenty thousand souls, should shrink at the yielding up of one life!” concludes he, placing his back firmly against the door, and commanding Graspum to resume his seat.  Having locked the door and placed the key in his pocket, he paced twice or thrice up and down the floor, seemingly in deep contemplation, and heaved a sigh.  “Graspum!” he ejaculated, suddenly turning towards that terrified gentleman; “in that same iron chest have you another box, the same containing papers which are to me of more value than all your invoices of souls.  Go! bring it hither!” Tremblingly did the man-seller obey the command, drew from the chest an antiquated box, and placed it hesitatingly upon the table.  “I will get the key, if you will kindly permit me,” he said, bowing, as the sweat fell from his chin upon the carpet.  The stranger says it wants no key; he breaks it open with his hands.  “You have long stored it with goodly papers; let us see of what they are made,” said he.  Here Graspum commenced drawing forth package after package of papers, the inscriptions on which were eagerly observed by the stranger’s keen eye.  At length there came out a package of letters, superscribed in the stranger’s own hand, and directed to Hugh Marston.  “How came you by these?” enquired the stranger, grasping them quickly:  “Ah, Graspum, I have heard all!  Never mind,—­continue!” he resumed.  Presently there came forth a package addressed to “Franconia M’Carstrow,” some of which the stranger recognised as superscribed by his mother, others by Clotilda, for she could write when a slave.  Graspum would put this last aside; but in an angry tone did the stranger demand it, as his passion had well nigh got the better of his resolution.  “How the deep and damning infamy discovers itself!  Ah, Graspum, for the dross of this world hast thou betrayed the innocent.  Through thine emissaries has thus intercepted these letters, and felt safe in thy guilt.  And still you know not who I am?” Indeed, the man-seller was too much beside himself with terror to have recognised even a near friend.  “My name is Lorenzo,—­he who more than twenty years ago you beguiled into crime.  There is concealed beneath those papers a bond that bears on its face the secret of the many sorrows brought upon my family.”  “Lorenzo!” interrupted Graspum, as he let fall a package of papers, and sat aghast and trembling.  “Yes,” replied the other, “you cannot mistake me, though time hath laid a heavy hand upon my brow.  Now is your infamy complete!” Here the stranger drew forth the identical bond we have described in the early part of our history, as being signed by Marston, at his mansion, on the night previous to Lorenzo’s departure.  Bidding the man-seller move not an inch, he spread the document before him, and commanded him to read the contents.  This he had not resolution to do.  “Graspum!” spoke Lorenzo, his