The secret was his, and no one else's.
Or if they did know, what matter?
Dozens of men sell their souls every year, and thrive thereon; tradesmen, lawyers, squires, popular preachers, great noblemen, kings and princes.

He would be in good company, at all events: and while so many live in glass houses, who dare throw stones?
But then, curiously enough, there came over him a vague dread of possible evil, such as he had never felt before.

He had been trying for years to raise himself above the power of fortune; and he had succeeded ill enough: but he had never lost heart.

Robbed, shipwrecked, lost in deserts, cheated at cards, shot in revolutions, begging his bread, he had always been the same unconquerable light-hearted Tom, whose motto was, "Fall light, and don't whimper: better luck next round." But now, what if he played his last court-card, and Fortune, out of her close-hidden hand, laid down a trump thereon with quiet sneering smile?
And she would! He knew, somehow, that he should not thrive.

His children would die of the measles, his horses break their knees, his plate be stolen, his house catch fire, and Mark Armsworth die insolvent.