“Of course you do. Sheldon, you know.”

      “Sheldon is your name.”

      “Yes, you know. There isn’t a waterman on the river as—as—can drink like me.”

      “You are a waterman, then?”

      “You—know I am.”

      “Of course. Oh, yes, of course I do,” said Learmont.

      “Well then, you know—I—can keep my own counsel—it’s extra—extraordinary how clever I—am.”

      “Quite remarkable.”

      “Well—I—I—watched—you home, and I heard you—a talking to—the—boy—”

      “The boy?”

      “Yes. You keep him shut up—in the haunted—house—oh! oh!—I’ve watched you—you—see.”

      “The boy?” repeated Learmont.

      “Yes, yes, the boy. I climbed up at the back of—of the old house, you see.”

      “Yes, yes,” said Learmont, eagerly, “and you saw—”

      “Nothing.”

      “Nothing?”

      “D—d—damned a thing—but I heard you—”

      “And—the boy? You heard the boy? A boy’s voice?”

      “No, I didn’t.”

      “You said so.”

      “No, I didn’t—don’t in—in—insult me!”

      “My good friend, I would not insult you on any consideration. I am mistaken—I thought you said you heard a boy’s voice.”

      “The—the—then—you thought wrong.”

      “Exactly.”

      “You are—a—f—f—fool—a ex—extraordinary fool.”

      “Well,” said Learmont, in an oily voice, “you saw the boy?”

      “Ah, now,” cried his drunken companion, “now you have hit it. I’ll just tell you how—I—I cir—circum—navi—no, that ain’t it, circum—ventated you.”

      “Do,” said Learmont. ”You are exceedingly clever.”

      “I know it. Well, I heard you talking to some one, and I went from window to window to try to see in, you know, and at one of ’em I saw him.”

      “The boy?”

      “Yes—to—to be sure.”

      “Did you hear him speak?”

      “I—I believe you—”

      “Well—well.”

      “Says he, in a mournful kind o’ way, says he—what do you think now?”

      “Really, I cannot tell.”

      “Oh, but it’s ex—extraordinary, because you see that’s how—I found out your name, you see.”

      “My name, Master Sheldon?”

      “Yes, your name.”

      “No, you don’t know it. You cannot know it.”

      “N—n—not know it?”

      “Well, what is it, then, if you do know it?”

      “Gray, to be sure.”

      “Gray!” cried Learmont, with so sharp a cry, that the man jumped again; and would have fallen had not Learmont clutched him tightly by the arm.

      “Ye—ye—yes,” stammered the drunken man, in whom the reader has already recognised Sheldon, the waterman, to whom Gray had proposed the murder of Britton.

      “You are sure? on your life—on your soul, you are sure the name was Gray?”

      The man looked in the countenance of Learmont, as well as the darkness would permit him, and answered, not without evident trepidation—

      “Gray—yes—Gray—it—it was. I shouldn’t have known it—but, you see, the boy stopped at the window to cry—”

      “To cry?—well—and then?”

      “Then, he said, ‘Can this man, Gray, really be of my kindred? Do we think alike?’ says he, ‘do we’—now, hang me, if I recollect what he said.”

      “Ha, ha, ha!” suddenly laughed Learmont. “You are brave and acute. Ha, ha! You have found me out, I see. I am Gray. Ha, ha!”

      “I—I—beg—your pardon, Mister Gray,” hiccupped the man, “but was that y—y—you that laughed in that odd way? Eh?”

      “I laughed,” said Learmont.

      “Then—d—don’t do it again. It’s the most uncom—com—comfortable sort o’ laugh I ever heard; an ex—ex—extraordinary laugh.”

      “Good master a—a—”

      “Sheldon,” said the man.

      “Ay, Sheldon,” resumed Learmont. “I will have no secrets from you. You shall come home with me. You know the way?”

      “Of—of—course I do.”

      “Then, come on,” cried Learmont, with difficulty concealing his exultations at the chance that had thus thrown in his way a guide to Gray’s house.

      “Ay, you—you’re right,” said the waterman. “Come on—come on. We’ll have a cup together?”

      “Ha, ha!” cried Learmont, “we will.”

      “Now didn’t I tell you,” said Sheldon, with drunken gravity, marking off each word on his fingers, and making the most ludicrous efforts to speak very clear and distinct, “didn’t—I tell—you—to—keep—those laughs—to yourself?”

      “You did,” said Learmont; “but I forget. Come on, we will have brimming cups.”

      “Hurrah for everybody!” cried Sheldon. “We—we are jolly—fellows. Hurrah!”

      “Hurrah! Hurrah for the vine,

      When its sparkling bubbles rise,

      Call it divine—divine,

      For God’s a dainty prize.

      “Hurrah!”

      “By, heavens, a brave ditty,” said Learmont, “and well sung. You are an Apollo, Sheldon, with a little mixture of Bacchus.”

      “D—d—don’t insult me,” cried Sheldon. “I—I won’t bear it, Master G—Gray.”

      “Not for worlds,” muttered Learmont.

      “Eh?” cried Sheldon, “was that you?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Mean? Why—I—I—heard an uncommon odd voice say, ‘N—n—not for worlds.’ ”

      “ ’Twas some echo, my good friend. Is this the turning?”

      “Oh! Ah!” laughed the waterman. “Now that is good. Is—is—is this the turning—and—you going—have—Ho! Ho! You know it’s the turning—perhaps you want to in—in—sinuate that I’m drunk?”

      “Certainly not,” replied Learmont. “I was only surprised at your amazing knowledge of the road.