Plot on thy little hour, and skein on skein Weave the vain mesh, in which thy subtle soul Broods on its venom! Lo! behind, before, Around thee, like an armament of cloud, The black Fate labours onward--ANONYMOUS. The dusk of a winter's evening gathered over a room in Crauford's house in town, only relieved from the closing darkness by an expiring and sullen fire, beside which Mr. Bradley sat, with his feet upon the fender, apparently striving to coax some warmth into the icy palms of his spread hands. Crauford himself was walking up and down the room with a changeful step, and ever and anon glancing his bright, shrewd eye at the partner of his fraud, who, seemingly unconscious of the observ…
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