"You go and clean the carpet, sir," said John Jeffreys, whose superior presence of mind served to invest him with authority to direct the proceedings; "while I dig a hole in the garden."
Mr. Torrens hastened to obey the suggestion of his servant, and returned to the parlour, where he cleansed the carpet, as well as he could. He then took a bottle of Port-wine from the side-board, and broke it over the very spot where the blood had dripped down, leaving the fractured glass strewed about, and drawing the table near the sofa, so as to produce the appearance of the bottle having been accidentally knocked off it.
Nearly half an hour was consumed in this occupation; and Mr. Torrens, whose mind was already much relieved, hastened back to the garden, where Jeffreys was busily engaged in digging a grave for the murdered baronet. When the servant was tired, his master took a turn with the spade; and, as the soil was not particularly hard, an hour saw the completion of the labour.
The corpse was thrown into the hole, and the earth was shovelled over it—each layer being well stamped down by the feet.
When the task was accomplished, Mr. Torrens and Jeffreys re-entered the house; and, ere they separated to retire to their respective rooms, the former said, in a low whisper, "Once more I conjure you to maintain this secret inviolable, and I will find means to reward you well. For the present take this!"
And he slipped ten sovereigns—a portion of the murdered baronet's money—into the hands of Jeffreys.
"Don't be afeard that I'm leaky, sir," responded the man, clutching the gold, and consigning it to his pocket, where he had already stowed away the baronet's handsome repeater and gold rings—to which valuables he had helped himself, while his master was busily engaged in cleansing the carpet in the parlour;—for Mr. Torrens had merely plundered the corpse of the contents of the purse, and had not touched the jewellery, through fear that it might lead to the detection of the murder, if seen in his possession.
Master and man now separated—the former to seek a sleepless couch, and the latter to dream of the good fortune which that night's adventure had brought him.
And in his unconsecrated grave—a victim to the assassin's knife—slept the once gay, dissipated, and unprincipled Sir Henry Courtenay!