Dermoyne resumed his cap and cloak, first, carefully replacing the letter in his vest pocket.
"By to-morrow," he said, in a voice which rang low and distinct through the apartment, "by to-morrow, I will know the truth of this matter; and if I discover that this is, indeed, your letter,—if you have, indeed, dishonored poor Alice, and consigned herself and unborn babe, to the infernal mercies of Madam Resimer, why then,"—he moved toward the door, "then there will be one man the less, on the 25th of December."
He opened the door, and was gone ere his words had ceased to echo on the air.
His parting words rung in the very soul of the clergymen, as his footsteps died away on the stairs.
"What an abyss have I escaped!" ejaculated Herman, "exposure, disgrace and death!" He pressed his scented kerchief over his forehead, and wiped away the cold sweat which moistened it. "Fool! he little knows that Alice is already there. The Madam is a shrewd woman. Her rooms are dark, her doors secured by double bolts; her secrets are given to the keeping of the grave. This miserable idiot, this cobbler, cannot possibly gain admittance into her mansion? No, no, this thought is idle. And Alice, poor child, why can't I marry her? Her father's death will leave her in possession of a handsome fortune,—why can't I marry her?"
Too well he knew the only answer to this question.
"We are all but mortal; she may die!" and an expression of remarkable complacency came over his face. Joining his thumbs and fingers in front of his breast, he reflected deeply. "But if she survives?"
His brow became clouded, his lips compressed; all the vulture of his soul was written on his vulture-like countenance.
"If she survives!"
While the light disclosed his slender figure, centered in the scarlet cushions of the arm-chair, and fell upon his countenance, revealing the purpose which was written there, Herman still muttered between his set teeth, the question, "If she survives?" To him, it was a question of life and death.