He knew that if Lord Atherton had but the least suspicion of the vilely treacherous way in which he had preyed upon his innocent wife, he would, in all probability, thrash him within an inch of his life.
He was far from being comfortable, and wished that he had taken Adelaide's advice and had gone less rashly to work--had been content with less.

After all, he felt compelled to own that he had been rather hard upon her.
"Let her send this time," he said to himself, "and I will not trouble her again just yet." He was seated in a luxurious lounging chair, on the table by his side was a bottle of finest Cognac, and he was enjoying the flavor of a very fine cigar.

Notwithstanding all these comforts, Allan Lyster was not happy.
"I cannot think," he said to himself, "why she does not send." At that moment he heard a sharp ring at the door bell.
"That is the messenger," he said to himself, triumphantly, "and it is quite time, too." But it was a man's heavy footstep that mounted the stairs, and when Allan Lyster looked anxiously at the door, he was astonished to see Lord Atherton enter, carrying a thick riding whip in his hand.
He sprang obsequiously from his chair.
"I am delighted to see you, my lord," he began, but one look at that white, stern face froze the words on his lips.

Lord Atherton waved his hand.
"I want those letters, sir!" he cried, in a voice of thunder--"those letters that you have, holding as a sword over the head of my wife!" "What if I refuse to give them ?" replied Allan.
"Then I shall take them from you.

I have read this precious epistle, in which you threaten to show them to me.