“You think me jesting, perhaps—you imagine I will spare you. Undeceive yourself—your life is a small matter compared with these two papers.
“One is the certificate of madam’s marriage with your very humble servant; the other the letter which I took from Mr. Davenant’s desk that night, in which I confess myself the—well! the murderer—of George Conway!”
XXXII. — A PISTOL-SHOT.
Darke’s deep and gloomy voice ceased to resound, and for a moment the silence of the apartment was only disturbed by the slight creaking made by the chair of the woman, as she quietly rocked backward and forward.
Swartz had risen to his feet while Darke was uttering his final words. With clasped hands, and trembling lips, he was about to throw himself upon his knees;—when suddenly a shot resounded without, a cry was heard, and then this was succeeded by rapid firing, mingled with hoof-strokes, in the immediate vicinity of the house.
Darke rose to his feet, and in two strides was at the window.
“An attack!” he exclaimed. “Can the friends of this carrion be trying to catch me!”
And springing toward the door, he tore it open.