“You have triumphed but for a short time,” added Learmont. “Your own cunning has been your destruction, Jacob Gray, your life is not now worth five minutes’ purchase.”
“Taunt on,” said Gray, “I know not what you mean or what you want.”
“Well you know,” cried Learmont, angrily, “you had a double hold upon my fears, Jacob Gray, but that double hold depended upon a slender foundation. So long as you could keep your hiding-place secret you were safe, but no longer.”
“I—I still do not understand you,” said Gray, who was anxious to give Ada some time to complete the change he did not doubt she was making in her apparel.
“Ha! Ha!” laughed Learmont. “It were a thousand pities you should die in ignorance of what had been the result of your extreme cleverness, Jacob Gray. Suppose me, as I shall be now, possessed of the boy, and the confession, which of course, must be somewhere handy, else it is objectless.”
“Well—well,” said Gray, trembling, “suppose all that.”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” chuckled the smith. “Upon my soul that’s good, cunning Jacob—clever, artful, deep-designing Jacob. Why, supposing all that we mean to cut your throat.”
“We waste time,” cried Learmont. “Where is the boy?”
“Ay, the boy, the cherub, the boy!” cried Britton.
“He is not here,” said Gray, with as much boldness as he could assume.
Learmont gave a smile of contempt as he said—
“Indeed, he is not here, and yet Jacob Gray is here. That is very probable. Now I tell you he is here, and what is more, he cannot escape. The back of the house is guarded by persons who have orders to cut down whoever attempts to leave it that way. Britton and I came in at the front. We have well searched the lower rooms, so you see we have taken our measures almost as cleverly as Jacob Gray took his when he came to Learmont to whisper in his ear that the boy still lived!”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” roared the smith, patting Gray on the back. “How feel you, Master Jacob? Does your blood dance merrily through your veins, or have you still some stroke of cunning un-played off that shall put us yet to shame? By hell, if you have, Jacob Gray, I’ll—I’ll give you my head!”
“Agreed,” said Gray.
“Give me the light,” cried Learmont.
He snatched the link from the hand of Britton, and made two strides towards the inner room.
Gray with difficulty suppressed a scream of alarm, but before Learmont could lay hand on the lock, Ada flung the door open, and walked composedly forth.
She was attired in a plain, but neat girl’s dress. A small hooded cloak was clasped round her neck; and now that she was attired in the proper costume of her sex, she looked several years older, and the change in her general appearance was so great that even Jacob Gray would scarcely have recognised her.
She showed no nervousness, no haste, no sign of trepidation as she stepped from the room, and her voice was soft, and musical, and quite calm as she paused and said—
“Good evening, Mr. Gray. I have put all Harry’s things in order.”
Then curtseying to Learmont, who stood almost directly in her way, she passed across the outer room, and disappeared through the broken doorway.
For several minutes not a word was spoken by either of the three men there assembled. Oh, what precious minutes they were to Jacob Gray!
Learmont then, without a word, entered the inner room. In a few moments he returned with his face distorted by passion, and placing his sword’s point against the throat of Gray, he said—
“Where is the boy?”
“Not here—on my soul not here!” cried Gray, trembling with fear that Learmont’s passion might get the better of his prudence, and that by one thrust of his weapon he might shed his life blood.
“Where is he?”
“Where is he?” echoed Gray, to whom each moment gained for Ada thoroughly to escape, was equal to a drop of blood to his heart.
“Answer me!” shrieked Learmont.
“I repeat the boy is not here.”
“One moment more I give you,” added Learmont, “to declare to me where the boy is, or you die, as sure as—as that I hate you from my soul!”
“Pause yet a moment, Squire Learmont,” sneered Gray. “If my life has hitherto been valuable, and my safety precious to you, they are doubly so now.”
“No, Jacob Gray,” cried Learmont, “that tale will do no more. We have hunted you down. It is not probable that the cautious Jacob Gray has trusted the boy we seek with the secret of his birth.”
“You are right,” said Gray, “I have not.”
“And you are candid,” sneered Learmont.
“Ho! Ho!” laughed Britton. “Poor Jacob Gray has forgotten even to lie—”
“Exactly,” snarled Gray, “because the truth will do as well. That is a piece of philosophy which the muddled brains of savage Britton would never have conceived.”
Britton made a furious rush at Gray, but the latter stepped behind Learmont, saying—“It is still the interest of Squire Learmont to protect Jacob Gray.”
“Hold, Britton,” cried Learmont. “Stay your arm yet a moment. We—we will hear him.”
“You need not be alarmed, squire,” said Gray. “Our relative positions are still the same.”
“How mean you? Your retreat is discovered.”
“True, but—”
“And the confession which has hitherto ensured your safety, must be here, and easily found, else it were valueless, and would defeat its object.”
“Indeed!” said Gray. “Now, hear me. The boy is not here! The confession is in his hands.”
Learmont trembled as he slowly dropped the point of his sword, and fixed his eyes upon Jacob Gray’s countenance, as if he would read his very soul.
“Go on, go on,” he said.
“I repeat, the boy has the confession. He knows not what it is. It is sealed.”
“Well. Go—go—on.”
“But he has express instructions, which, be assured, he will fulfil to the letter; that if he and I do not meet at an appointed spot, by an appointed hour, he is to hasten to Sir Francis Hartleton, and deliver the packet. You understand my position, Squire Learmont? And even your dull-pated Britton may now see the expediency of being careful of your dear friend, Jacob Gray. Fancy any delay being thrown in my way now, which should prevent me from meeting the boy. How disagreeable it would be to me to see hung, kind Britton, while I had my free pardon in my pocket for being evidence against you. Do you understand?”
There was a most remarkable difference in the expression of the smith’s countenance and that of Learmont’s, while Gray was speaking. The former became nearly purple with suppressed rage, while the squire turned of an ashy, ghastly paleness, and seemed scarcely equal to the exertion of standing erect.
“Gray—Jacob Gray,” he gasped. “You do not—you cannot mean that—that—”
“That what, squire?” said Gray. “Why do you hesitate? I will answer any question; candidly.”
“Have