"I had him murdered in the shooting-box."
"But why?" enquired Frank Edwards, looking less startled than could be expected.
"Why? Because Isabella could not be happy while he lived."
"Recollect I had no hand in it," said Frank. "I wouldn't have agreed to it on any account, and told you so before you did it."
Great heavens! what a secret to be thrust upon me! and what an introduction to the son of my poor friend—the accomplice of a murderer—who had evidently been consulted about the crime, and though he certainly had protested against it, had allowed it to be carried into effect! I was hesitating whether I should not retire at once, when Frank turned round and saw me. He rose, and received the apologies I muttered for my intrusion with the most astonishing self-command. I determined to conceal my knowledge of their conversation from them; and really, looking at the clear open countenance of the boy, it was difficult to believe that he knew any thing of so shocking a kind. I was introduced to the other, Mr Percy Marvale, and saw so much Italian, or perhaps gipsy, blood in his dark skin, and such a fierce expression in his coal-black eyes, that I was not so much surprised at his being implicated in the fearful deed. He looked just like one of the fellows on the stage who cut throats in a heroic fashion on the slightest provocation. But both were so free in their manner, and talked so pleasantly, that if it had not been for what I had overheard, I should have taken them for two very agreeable young men. And, in spite of it all, I could hardly avoid asking them both to leave the deserted house, and take up their quarters with me. I forced myself, however, to abstain from giving them the invitation; and after a half hour of friendly conversation, I got up to go away. They accompanied me a portion of the way; and when I looked at young Frank, and listened to the tones of his voice, twenty years seemed to roll off my shoulders. I took his hand. "You must dine with me to-morrow," I said; "and—and—your friend Mr Marvale," I added with some little difficulty. They both accepted without a moment's hesitation. "Hang it, there must be some mistake after all!" I thought, as I put my foot in the stirrup; "but I'll go and ask a few of the neighbours to meet them. Old Smith of Howkey is a magistrate, with an amazing nose for a crime. We'll see what he makes of it."
CHAPTER II.
Now old Smith was the son of a great London millionaire—an alderman, or even a lord mayor, for any thing I know—who had bought Howkey, and built an enormous house, to which his son had taken the moment the old gentleman died; had cut the shop, got on the commission, and now rejoiced in a fat, jolly, good-tempered wife, and a multiplicity of sons and daughters. Such a fellow for points of law was never heard of out of Westminster Hall, nor in it either. He read Acts of Parliament as other people read novels—for his amusement; and every body thought he knew more about them than a lord chancellor. There was great rejoicing at Howkey, from the drawing-room up to the very nursery, when I told of Frank Edwards's arrival. All manner of enquiries were made, in various tones of interest, from the romantic Miss Sibylla down to the youngest of the girls, as to his appearance, manner, height, and complexion. I answered them all to the extreme satisfaction of the enquirers, but took care to make no allusion to his companion; though, at the same time, I confess I could not persuade myself that what I had overheard had the dreadful meaning I at first attached to it. He must have meant something else; for I had not become acquainted with the new style of flash language, where so many allusions are made to people's mothers and their mangles, without any real reference either to one or other. Getting a man murdered in a shooting-box might mean something equivalent to "There you go, with your eye out!" which has no meaning at all. But although I had persuaded myself of this, I made no mention at Howkey of the ferocious-looking Percy Marvale, but merely asked my friend Old Smith to come over, and help me to welcome the new neighbour. Sibylla, who had all along been of opinion that Mr Frank Edwards was engaged to his tutor's daughter, and took no interest in him accordingly, was all of a sudden seized with an uncommon affection for my wife. She felt for the awkwardness of her position so much in being the only lady among so many gentlemen, that she insisted on going over with her father, merely to bear her company; and, from the sympathizing countenance of her fair sister Monimia, I expected every moment a similar offer from her. The Williamses, and old Harry Lambert and his son, were the only others I could catch on so short a notice; but we all determined to make up in friendliness for the paucity in numbers, and give young Frank a hearty welcome to his native county.
We were all assembled in the drawing-room—that is to say, all but the party from Bandvale—and Mr Smith was laying down the law, or rather explaining it after his usual manner, when Sibylla, who had stood at the window, all of a sudden gave a slight scream, and flushed up to the eyes like a peony rose.
"Why, what's the matter, Sib?" said Old Smith; "has a bee stung you."
"No, no!" she said; "but I saw likeness—a something"—