This note may yet be useful to myself if I could get a sincere friend that would find out the man whose name--Thomas Skipton--is written here upon it.

He is the man I want, for I know his signature." No sooner had the baronet read these lines, than he examined the several names on the note, and on coming to one which was underlined evidently by the same ink that was used by Fenton in the memoranda, his eyes gleamed with delight, and he waved it to and fro with a grim and hideous triumph, such as the lurid light of his foul principles flashing through such eyes, and animating such features as his, could only express.
"Unhappy wretch," thought he, looking upon his unconscious victim, "it is evident that you are doomed; this man is the only individual living over whom I have no control, that could give any trace of you; neither of the other two, for their own sakes, dare speak.

Even fate is against you; that fate which has consigned this beggarly representative of wealth to my hands, through your own instrumentality.

I now feel confident; nay, I am certain that my projects will and must succeed.
The affairs of this world are regulated unquestionably by the immutable decrees of destiny.

What is to be will be; and I, in putting this wretched, drunken, mad, and besotted being out of my way, am only an instrument in the hands of that destiny myself.