"It is considered an unlucky omen to leave unfinished the glass in which you pledge the health of one who is about to traverse the ocean," said Stephens.
"In that case," answered Eliza, with a smile, "I will relieve your superstitious fears;" and she drained her glass.
Half an hour passed in conversation; and Eliza felt an irresistible drowsiness coming over her. She endeavoured to rally against it—but in vain; and at length she would have fallen from her chair fast asleep, had not Stephens rushed forward and caught her.
He then rang the bell for the servant.
"Your mistress is unwell—she has been complaining all the evening; and she has now fallen into a profound sleep. I will assist you to convey her up stairs to her chamber."
Stephens and the servant carried the entranced lady to the boudoir.
Having placed her upon the bed, Stephens left the servant to undress her, and hastily descended to the hall. He opened the front door with caution, and whistled.
Two men emerged from the total darkness without, and glided into the hall. Stephens conducted them into a back parlour, and gave them the key to lock themselves in.
He himself then returned to the dining-room, where he tranquilly awaited the arrival of Mr. Greenwood.
Midnight was proclaimed at length.
A low knock at the front door fell upon Stephens's ear.
He hastened to obey the summons, and admitted Greenwood into the house.
They repaired to the dining-room together.
"Your wishes have been obeyed in all respects," said Stephens. "Eliza is in your power: the servant has retired to her own room. Give me my reward—for I am in a hurry to leave a dwelling to which my presence will have brought so much misery."
And yet this man did not seem appalled nor horror-struck at the infernal nature of the crime for which he thus demanded the recompense.
"You will await me here five minutes," said Greenwood; and he left the room.
At the expiration of that interval he returned, the fire of triumph and lust flashing from his eyes.
"It is all well—you have not deceived me," he observed in a tone of joy and exultation; "I have seen her, buried in a profound sleep—stretched like a beauteous statue in her voluptuous bed! The light of a lamp plays upon her naked bosom; the atmosphere of her chamber is soft, warm, and perfumed. Such charms are worth a kingdom's purchase! She is mine—she is mine: here is your reward!"
Greenwood handed a bank-note to his accomplice—or rather instrument in this atrocious proceeding; and Stephens then took his departure.
But as he passed through the hall, he thrust a letter, addressed to Eliza Sydney, beneath the carpet that covered the stairs.
The moment Greenwood was alone, he paced the dining-room for a few minutes, to feast his imagination with the pleasures of love and triumph which he now beheld within his reach.
"Yes—she is mine," he said: "she is mine—no power on earth can now save her! Oh! how will I triumph over the proud and haughty beauty, when to-morrow she awakes and finds herself in my arms. She will thrust her hand beneath the pillow for her long sharp dagger; it will not be there! She will extend her arm towards the bell-rope; it will be cut! And then she may rave—and weep—and reproach—and pray; I shall smile at her grief—her eyes will be more beautiful when seen through her tears! I shall compel her then to crave to be my mistress—she who refused to be my wife! Oh! what a triumph is within my reach!"
He paused; filled a tumbler half full of wine—and drank the contents at a draught.
"Now for my victory—now for the fruits of my intrigues!" he resumed. "But let me wait one moment longer! let me ask myself whether it be really true that the lovely Eliza Sydney will shortly bless my arms—that she is at this moment in my power. It is—it is; and I shall now no longer delay the enjoyment of that terrestrial paradise!"
With these words, he left the dining-room, and crossed the hall towards the staircase.
He was now about to ascend to the boudoir.
His foot was upon the first step, when he was rudely seized from behind, and instantly gagged with a pocket-handkerchief.
Turning his head partially round, in a vain effort to escape from the powerful grasp in which he found himself, he encountered, by the light of the lamp that hung in the hall, the glance of the Cracksman.
"The deuce!" exclaimed the burglar in a low and subdued tone: "this is a rum go! Working for you last night, and against you to-night! But, never mind: we must fulfil our agreement, let it be what it will. I can however tell you for your satisfaction that we don't mean to hurt you. So come along quiet; and all will be right."
"What's the meaning of this, Tom?" said the Cracksman's companion, who was no other than the Resurrection Man: "you don't mean to say that you know this fellow?"
"He's the one that we did the job for last night on the Richmond road," answered the Cracksman.
"And he's got plenty of tin," added the Resurrection Man significantly. "We can perhaps make a better bargain with him than what Stephens has promised us for this night's business."
"Yes—but we can't talk here," returned the Cracksman: "so come along. I've got my plan all cut and dry."
Greenwood conveyed several intimations, by means of signs, that he wished to speak; but the two ruffians hurried him out of the house.
They conducted him across the fields to an empty barn at a distance of about a mile from the villa. During the journey thither they conversed together in a flash language altogether unintelligible to their captive, who was still gagged. A difference of opinion evidently seemed to subsist between the two men, relative to the plan which they should pursue with regard to Greenwood; but they at length appeared to agree upon the point.
With regard to Greenwood himself, he was a prey to a variety of painful feelings—disappointment in his designs upon Eliza at the moment when he appeared to stand upon the threshhold of success—bitter malignity against Stephens who had thus duped him—and alarm at the uncertainty of the fate which might await him at the hands of the villains in whose power he thus strangely found himself.
The night was pitch-dark; but the moment the two ruffians with their captive entered the barn, a lantern in the hands of the Cracksman was suddenly made to throw a bright light forwards.
That light fell upon the countenance of Stephens, who was standing in the middle of the shed.
"All right," said the Cracksman. "We pinioned the bird without trouble; and he ain't a strange one, neither."
"What! do you mean that you know him?" demanded Stephens.
"That's neither here nor there," replied the Cracksman. "We don't tell secrets out of school, 'cos if we did, there'd be no reliance put in us; and we does a great many pretty little jobs now and then for the swell folks. But here is your bird—delivered at this werry spot, accordin' to agreement."
"Well and good," said Stephens. "Tie him hand and foot."
The Cracksman and the Resurrection Man instantly obeyed this command: they threw Greenwood upon a truss of straw, and fastened his hands together, and then his feet, with strong cord.
"Here is your reward," said Stephens, as soon as this was accomplished. "I have now no more need of your services."
He handed them some money as he thus spoke; and, having counted it, the two villains bade him good night and left the barn, which was now enveloped in total darkness.