filled a glass with liquor. "Drink it and go--until to-morrow--any time,
but--leave us!--go now!" But even then, ere the miserable wretch could
drink, the old man, pale with passion, was upon him. Half carrying him
in his powerful arms, half dragging him through the circling crowd of
frightened guests, he had reached the door, swung open by the waiting
servants, when Charles Thompson started from a seeming stupor, crying,--

"Stop!"

The old man stopped. Through the open door the fog and wind drove
chilly. "What does this mean?" he asked, turning a baleful face on
Charles.

"Nothing--but stop--for God's sake. Wait till to-morrow, but not
to-night. Do not--I implore you--do this thing."

There was something in the tone of the young man's voice, something,
perhaps, in the contact of the struggling wretch he held in his powerful
arms; but a dim, indefinite fear took possession of the old man's heart.
"Who," he whispered, hoarsely, "is this man?"

Charles did not answer.

"Stand back, there, all of you," thundered Mr. Thompson, to the crowding
guests around him. "Char-les--come here! I command you--I--I--I--beg
you--tell me WHO is this man?"

Only two persons heard the answer that came faintly from the lips of
Charles Thompson,--