THE DIABOLIC WHISPER.

 

Gordon Chancey sauntered in his usual lazy, lounging way, with his hands in his pockets, down the street. After a listless walk of half-an-hour he found himself at the door of a handsome house, in the immediate¹ neighbourhood of the Castle. He knocked, and was admitted by a servant in full livery.

 

"Is he in the same room?" inquired Chancey.

 

"Yes, sir," replied the man; and without further parley², the learned counsel proceeded upstairs, and knocked at the drawing-room door, which, without waiting for any answer, he forthwith opened.

 

Nicholas Blarden—with two ugly black plaisters across his face, his arm in a sling³, and his countenance⁴ bearing in abundance the livid marks of his late rencounter—stood with his back to the fire-place; a table, blazing with wax-lights, and stored with glittering wine-flasks and other matters, was placed at a little distance before him. As the man of law entered the room, the countenance of the invalid⁵ relaxed into an ugly grin of welcome.

 

"Well, Gordy, boy, how goes the game? Out with your news, old rat-catcher," said Blarden, in high good humour.

 

"Dear me, dear me! but the night is mighty⁶ chill, Mr. Blarden," observed Chancey, filling a glass of wine to the brim, and sipping⁷ it uninvited. "News," he continued, letting himself drop into a chair—"news; well, there's not much stirring worth telling you."

 

"Come, what is it? You're not come here for nothing, old fox," rejoined Blarden, "I know by the —— twinkle in the corner of your eye."

 

"Well, he has been with me, just now," drawled Chancey.

 

"Ashwoode?"

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