"Yes!" he repeated to himself, "the limb pains me still. But he died!--
shot as a man would shoot a jay or a polecat!

"I have the newspaper still in that drawer. He died an outcast--a felon--
a murderer! And I blasted his name--and I seduced his mistress--and I--
am John Lord Lilburne!"

About ten o'clock, some half-a-dozen of those gay lovers of London, who,
like Lilburne, remain faithful to its charms when more vulgar worshippers
desert its sunburnt streets--mostly single men--mostly men of middle age
--dropped in. And soon after came three or four high-born foreigners,
who had followed into England the exile of the unfortunate Charles X.
Their looks, at once proud and sad--their moustaches curled downward--
their beards permitted to grow--made at first a strong contrast with the
smooth gay Englishmen. But Lilburne, who was fond of French society, and
who, when he pleased, could be courteous and agreeable, soon placed the
exiles at their ease; and, in the excitement of high play, all
differences of mood and humour speedily vanished. Morning was in the
skies before they sat down to supper.

"You have been very fortunate to-night, milord," said one of the
Frenchmen, with an envious tone of congratulation.

"But, indeed," said another, who, having been several times his host's
partner, had won largely, "you are the finest player, milord, I ever
encountered."

"Always excepting Monsieur Deschapelles and--," replied Lilburne,
indifferently. And, turning the conversation, he asked one of the guests
why he had not introduced him to a French officer of merit and