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be possible, I'll have it. You'll dot see Sylvester agaid to-day, I suppose?"

"I don't expect to see him again. He is gone, I believe, to call upon Scholefield."

Well, if you should see hib, dod't explaid to hib adythidg which has passed betweed us."

"Certainly not. I see your object too clearly. Will you call upon me in the morning, or shall I call upon you?"

"Oh, I'll call upod you about ted."

The solicitor promised to be at home at that hour, and, being satisfied that everything possible would be done, took his leave.

In the evening, Tom attached strings to the window and door of the room in which Sylvester was to sleep, and, having left lengths conveniently available, sat down with Sylvester to have a game of chess. The game lasted till eleven, and they then had a glass of grog each, and a cigar, and, as Sylvester did not imagine for one moment that Tom meant to sit up again that night, they retired to their respective rooms about twelve.

Tom then got hold of the strings—one through the window, and the other through the door, and, as he held them in his hand, it was perfectly impossible for Sylvester to open either the door or the window of his room without Tom's knowledge. And there he sat, with the strings in his hand, a cigar in his mouth, and a glass of grog before him: and there he continued to sit until two, when the string attached to the door was drawn out of his hand slowly.

Tom was up in an instant, but paused; and then proceeded with the utmost caution. He distinctly heard footsteps ascending the stairs; and he followed the sound noiselessly. That they were the footsteps of Sylvester he had not the slightest doubt: he felt sure of it, and panted with impatience; but as the value of discretion in such cases was not unknown to him, he followed them cautiously still. A door opened—slowly; the door of the attic—and closed again as Tom ascended; and when he had reached it, he stood and listened; but heard no sound within. For what imagined purpose was Sylvester there? That room was perfectly empty. It surely was Sylvester. Tom began to doubt it. He opened the door, and found the room empty still. He looked round and marvelled. "Who's there?" he demanded. No answer was returned. He could hear no sound. He ceased to breathe, and might have heard the breathing of another; but there was no one breathing there. The window was open; but that was usual: still, being open, to the window he went, and, on looking out, to his horror beheld Sylvester pacing the parapet!

His blood in an instant chilled. He was breathless with terror. With uplifted hands he looked at him, appalled! He expected that every moment would be his last. And yet what could he do? What could be done?

Sylvester slowly approached, and—passed him: and Tom would have clutched him as he passed, but he then felt utterly powerless.

Again he came, and, as he approached, Tom nerved himself to grasp