The dying man's eyes roved over the ring of faces. "I don't know," he

whispered, so faintly that Soane had to bring his ear very near his

lips. "The parson--was to have got her to Tamplin's--for me. He put her

in the wrong carriage. He's paid. And--I'm paid."

With the last word the small-sword fell clinking to the floor. The dying

man drew himself up, and seemed to press his hand more and more tightly

to his side. For a brief second a look of horror--as if the

consciousness of his position dawned on his brain--awoke in his eyes.

Then he beat it down. "Tamplin's staunch," he muttered. "I must stand by

Tamplin. I owe--pay him five pounds for--"

A gush of blood stopped his utterance. He gasped and with a groan but no

articulate word fell forward in Soane's arms. Bully Pomeroy had lost his

last stake!

Not this time the spare thousands the old squire, good saving man, had

left on bond and mortgage; not this time the copious thousands he had

raised himself for spendthrift uses: nor the old oaks his

great-grand-sire had planted to celebrate His Majesty's glorious

Restoration: nor the Lelys and Knellers that great-grand-sire's son,

shrewd old connoisseur, commissioned: not this time the few hundreds

hardly squeezed of late from charge and jointure, or wrung from the

unwilling hands of friends--but life; life, and who shall say what

besides life!




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