It was the figure of an old man, with rolling eyes, his trembling hand
grasping a long, keen knife,--a figure more pitiable than pitiless, more
pathetic than terrible. But the next moment the knife was stricken from
his hand, and he struggled in the firm grasp of another figure that
apparently sprang from the wall beside him.

"D--n you, Masterman!" cried the old man, hoarsely; "give me fair play,
and I'll kill you yet!"

"Which my name is Yuba Bill," said Bill, quietly, "and it's time this
d--n fooling was stopped."

The old man glared in Bill's face savagely. "I know you. You're one
of Masterman's friends,--d--n you,--let me go till I cut his heart
out,--let me go! Where is my Mary?--where is my wife?--there she is!
there!--there!--there! Mary!" He would have screamed, but Bill placed
his powerful hand upon his mouth, as he turned in the direction of the
old man's glance. Distinct in the moonlight the figures of Islington and
Blanche, arm in arm, stood out upon the garden path.

"Give me my wife!" muttered the old man hoarsely, between Bill's
fingers. "Where is she?"

A sudden fury passed over Yuba Bill's face. "Where is your wife?" he
echoed, pressing the old man back against the garden wall, and holding
him there as in a vice. "Where is your wife?" he repeated, thrusting his
grim sardonic jaw and savage eyes into the old man's frightened face.
"Where is Jack Adam's wife? Where is MY wife? Where is the she-devil
that drove one man mad, that sent another to hell by his own hand, that