Then when the clock in the high tower of Learmont struck twelve, a tall figure enveloped in an ample cloak stalked through the village, and took the direct route to the Old Smithy.
The night had set in very dark, there was no moonlight, for masses of heavy clouds obscured its light, although it was nearly at the full, and the long straggling building, one wing of which was inhabited by the smith, showed but faintly against the black sky.
The Squire of Learmont, for it was he, who at the silent hour of midnight, had stolen out to keep his appointment, paused when he reached the wing of the house which had been burnt down on the night of the storm, and the crumbling ruins of which remained by his orders just as they had fallen.
A shudder came ever his frame as he regarded them and he muttered, “Can I? Dare I leave this spot with the knowledge of what it conceals? And yet, I am surely safe now. If these men—these tools by which I have hewn my path to wealth; if these could be safely disposed of—then—ah, then, I might know peace. At least this anxious fever of wild apprehension that gnaws at my heart would subside, and if I had a pang it would be for the past and not from a dread of that which was to come.”
He folded his cloak closer around him, and with hasty steps passed onwards to the smithy.
Thrice he struck the heavy door with the hilt of his sword, and in a moment the smith’s voice from within called loudly, “Who knocks?”
“Learmont,” was the answer; the door was flung open and the squire stood as the stranger had stood the preceding evening in the glare of the fire from the smithy.
“You are punctual, sir,” said Gray, advancing with an air of mock ceremony.
Learmont waved his hand in reply, and stalked into the old hall.
“Now,” he said, when Britton had barred the door, “I am here. Make your proposition.”
“Are you not afraid, sir,” sneered Gray, “to trust your worshipful person alone with two such old acquaintances?”
“No,” answered Learmont fearlessly, “I know you both too well. You calculate. My life is valuable to you. My death, in the accomplishment of which you might get some chance injury yourselves, would be a perfectly gratuitous act.”
“Enough of this folly,” growled Britton. “Let us to business.”
“I persevere then in my offer,” said Learmont, with a slight trembling of his voice. “A thousand pounds.”
The smith was silent, but Gray spoke.
“We have decided, worshipful sir,” he said.
“And your decision is—”
“This. We think, with your worship, that London is the most delightful of cities, and we purpose to follow you thither; to live ever near you, and to trust to your liberality for our wants.”
For a moment it seemed, by the convulsive working of the countenance of Learmont, that he was about to burst into an uncontrollable fit of passion; but if such was his feeling he succeeded in suppressing it, and replied with an affectation of calmness, “Preposterous! You must think me weak, indeed, to be thus dictated to, Master Gray.”
“Then I must to London,” said Gray, “and my only regret is that I have wasted valuable time.”
“Look ye, Squire Learmont,” said Britton, folding his huge arms across his breast, and glaring with his ferocious eyes in the face of his patron. “I was to have been well paid for a black job. You know I have been ill paid, on the plea that it was not completed.”
“I have constantly supplied your wants,” said Learmont, shrinking under the savage gaze of the smith.
“I have not starved, truly,” continued Britton. “But now I will have wealth.”
“Wealth? How can I divide sufficient among us three to make you wealthy?”
“Master Gray,” continued Britton, “has a ready wit and the news he brings shall enrich us.”
“If I absolutely refuse?“
“Then we bargain for impunity for the past, while we—”
“Denounce me?”
“Exactly.”
“And to what extent, most considerate gentlemen, do you contemplate making me your banker?”
“More or less as the case may be,” said Gray; “but we will be moderate in a gentlemanly way. Eh, Britton?”
“Certainly,” growled Britton, with the laugh of a hyena.
“The sum! The sum!” said, Learmont, impatiently.
“Five hundred pounds each as a start,” said Jacob Gray, with the most unblushing effrontery.
“Enormous!” cried Learmont.
“As you please, sir. Our conference then is over.”
“Britton, answer me one question,” said the squire.
“A dozen, if you please,” replied the smith.
“Have you been through that doorway, since—”
“I have, Squire Learmont.”
“And in what state—”
“Can you venture to look for yourself?” said the smith, with a sneer.
Learmont hesitated, and then said, “I can. Give me a light.”
The smith lit a lamp and handed it to the squire, along with a key.
“Can you give me any directions?” said Learmont.
“Take the second passage to your right and look closely on the ground as you go on.”
Learmont took the lamp and advanced to the old oaken door. His hand trembled as he turned the rusty lock, and in another moment he had passed through, and was lost to the sight of the confederates in the smithy.
In less than two minutes, he returned and staggered to a seat.
“You have seen it?” said Britton.
“No,” answered Learmont. “I—I thought I had the nerve—but for my life I could not proceed three steps in that awful place.”
“Do you consent now to our conditions?” asked Gray.
“Who has the—the papers?”
“I,” replied Britton.
“And I a more dreaded secret,” still whispered Gray.
“I—I consent,” said Learmont. “I consent.”
CHAPTER VII.
The Conference, Continued.—Mutual Security.—The Oaken Door and the Strange Appearance.—Mysteries Thicken.
For several minutes neither of the three men whose crimes had brought them into such strange fellowship, spoke. They regarded each with the most strange and mixed emotions. Upon the face of the haughty Lord of Learmont were pride, hate, and fear, each struggling for mastery. The smith looked, as he always looked, brutally