“If he has n't me to the fore to prove what I said, he can do nothing; and as to the will, he never heard of it.”
“The will!” exclaimed Grounsell, with an involuntary burst of surprise; and, brief as it was, it yet revealed a whole world of dissimulation to the acute mind of the prisoner.
“So, doctor,” said the fellow, slowly, “I was right after all. You were only fencing with me.”
“What do you mean?” cried Grounsell.
“I mean just this: that young Dalton never told you one word that passed between us; that you came here to pump me, and find out all I knew; that, cute as you are, there 's them that's equal to you, and that you 'll go back as wise as you came.”
“What's the meaning of this change, Meekins?”
“It well becomes you, a gentleman, and a justice of the peace, to come to the cell of a prisoner, in the dead of the night, and try to worm out of him what you want for evidence. Won't it be a fine thing to tell before a jury the offers you made me this night! Now, mind me, doctor, and pay attention to my words. This is twice you tried to trick me, for it was you sent that young man here. We 've done with each other now; and may the flesh rot off my bones, like a bit of burned leather, if I ever trust you again!”
There was an insolent defiance in the way these words were uttered, that told Grounsell all hope of negotiation was gone; and the unhappy doctor sat overwhelmed by the weight of his own incapacity and unskilfulness.
“There, now, sir, leave me alone. To-morrow I 'll find out if a man is to be treated in this way. If I 'm not discharged out of this jail before nine o'clock, I 'll know why, and you 'll never forget it, the longest day you live.”
Crestfallen and dispirited, Grounsell retired from the cell and returned to the inn.