Concurring in the opinion, Abel offered immediately to go in search of him; and dissuading Hilda, who secretly shared his worst apprehensions, from accompanying him, took a candle and descended to the cellar.
As he entered the vault, he indistinctly perceived a ghastly object; and springing forward, held up the light, so as to reveal it more fully. His fancy had not deceived him. There, in a grave—evidently digged by his own hands—lay his old enemy—dead—dead!
While Abel was wrapt in contemplation of this miserable spectacle, and surrendering himself to the thoughts which it inspired, heavy steps were heard behind him, and Jacob rushed into the cellar.
‘Where is he?’ cried the porter, in accents of alarm. ‘Has anything happened? Ha! I see.’
And pushing past Abel Beechcroft, he precipitated himself into the hole with his master.
‘All’s over with him,’ he cried, in a voice of agony and self-reproach, and grasping the cold hand of the corpse. ‘This would never have happened if I had been at home. I’m in a manner his murderer.’
‘Another hand than yours has been at work here, Jacob,’ said Abel; ‘and terrible as your poor master’s fate has been, it may prove a salutary lesson to others. There he lies, who a few hours ago was the possessor of useless thousands, the value of which he knew not—nay, the very existence of which he knew not—for the few bags of gold beside him were the only palpable treasure he owned.