"Yes," said I--"he is, at present, in London, and--" Glanville started as
if he had been shot.

"No, no," he exclaimed, wildly--"he died at Paris, from want--from
starvation."

"You are mistaken," said I; "he is now Sir John Tyrrell, and possessed of
considerable property. I saw him myself, three weeks ago."

Glanville, laying his hand upon my arm, looked in my face with a long,
stern, prying gaze, and his cheek grew more ghastly and livid with every
moment. At last he turned, and muttered something between his teeth; and
at that moment the door opened, and Thornton was announced. Glanville
sprung towards him and seized him by the throat!

"Dog!" he cried, "you have deceived me--Tyrrell lives!"

"Hands off!" cried the gamester, with a savage grin of defiance--"hands
off! or, by the Lord that made me, you shall have gripe for gripe!"

"Ho, wretch!" said Glanville, shaking him violently, while his worn and
slender, yet still powerful frame, trembled with the excess of his
passion; "dost thou dare to threaten me!" and with these words he flung
Thornton against the opposite wall with such force, that the blood gushed
out of his mouth and nostrils. The gambler rose slowly, and wiping the
blood from his face, fixed his malignant and fiery eye upon his
aggressor, with an expression of collected hate and vengeance, that made
my very blood creep.

"It is not my day now," he said, with a calm, quiet, cold voice, and